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Or, The Legend of Limerick Bells
THERE is a convent on the Alban hill, | |
| Round whose stone roots the gnarléd olives grow; | |
| Above are murmurs of the mountain rill, | |
| And all the broad campagna lies below; | |
| Where faint gray buildings and a shadowy dome | 5 |
| Suggest the splendor of eternal Rome. | |
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| Hundreds of years ago these convent walls | |
| Were reared by masons of the Gothic age: | |
| The date is carved upon the lofty halls, | |
| The story written on the illumined page. | 10 |
| What pains they took to make it strong and fair | |
| The tall bell-tower and sculptured porch declare. | |
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| When all the stones were placed, the windows stained, | |
| And the tall bell-tower finished to the crown, | |
| One only want in this fair pile remained, | 15 |
| Whereat a cunning workman of the town | |
| (The little town upon the Alban hill) | |
| Toiled day and night his purpose to fulfil. | |
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| Seven bells he made, of very rare device, | |
| With graven lilies twisted up and down; | 20 |
| Seven bells proportionate in differing size, | |
| And full of melody from rim to crown; | |
| So that when shaken by the wind alone | |
| They murmured with a soft Æolian tone. | |
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| These being placed within the great bell-tower, | 25 |
| And duly rung by pious skilful hand, | |
| Marked the due prayers of each recurring hour, | |
| And sweetly mixed persuasion with command. | |
| Through the gnarled olive-trees the music wound, | |
| And miles of broad campagna heard the sound. | 30 |
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| And then the cunning workman put aside | |
| His forge, his hammer, and the tools he used | |
| To chase those lilies; his keen furnace died; | |
| And all who asked for bells were hence refused. | |
| With these his best his last were also wrought, | 35 |
| And refuge in the convent walls he sought. | |
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| There did he live, and there he hoped to die, | |
| Hearing the wind among the cypress-trees | |
| Hint unimagined music, and the sky | |
| Throb full of chimes borne downwards by the breeze; | 40 |
| Whose undulations sweeping through the air | |
| His art might claim as an embodied prayer. * * * * * | |
| But those were stormy days in Italy: | |
| Down came the spoiler from the uneasy North, | |
| Swept the campagna to the bounding sea, | 45 |
| Sacked pious homes and drove the inmates forth; | |
| Whether a Norman or a German foe | |
| History is silent, and we do not know. | |
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| Brothers in faith were they; yet did not deem | |
| The sacred precincts barred destroying hand. | 50 |
| Through those rich windows poured the whitened beam, | |
| Forlorn the church and ruined altar stand. | |
| As the sad monks went forth that selfsame hour | |
| Saw empty silence in the great bell-tower. | |
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| The outcast brethren scattered far and wide; | 55 |
| Some by the Danube rested, some in Spain: | |
| On the green Loire the aged abbot died, | |
| By whose loved feet one brother did remain, | |
| Faithful in all his wanderings: it was he | |
| Who cast and chased those bells in Italy. | 60 |
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| He, dwelling at Marmoutier, by the tomb | |
| Of his dear father, where the shining Loire | |
| Flows down from Tours amidst the purple bloom | |
| Of meadow-flowers, some years of patience saw, | |
| Those fringéd isles (where poplars tremble still) | 65 |
| Swayed like the olives of the Alban hill. | |
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| The man was old, and reverend in his age; | |
| And the “Great Monastery” held him dear. | |
| Stalwart and stern, as some old Roman sage | |
| Subdued to Christ, he lived from year to year, | 70 |
| Till his beard silvered, and the fiery glow | |
| Of his dark eye was overhung with snow. | |
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| And being trusted, as of prudent way, | |
| They chose him for a message of import, | |
| Which the “Great Monastery” would convey | 75 |
| To a good patron in an Irish court; | |
| Who by the Shannon sought the means to found | |
| St. Martin’s offshoot on that distant ground. | |
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| The old Italian took his staff in hand, | |
| And journeyed slowly from the green Touraine, | 80 |
| Over the heather and salt-shining sand, | |
| Until he saw the leaping-crested main, | |
| Which, dashing round the Cape of Brittany, | |
| Sweeps to the confines of the Irish Sea. | |
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| There he took ship, and thence with laboring sail | 85 |
| He crossed the waters, still a faint gray line | |
| Rose in the Northern sky; so faint, so pale,— | |
| Only the heart that loves her would divine, | |
| In her dim welcome, all that fancy paints | |
| Of the green glory of the Isle of Saints. | 90 |
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| Through the low banks, where Shannon meets the sea, | |
| Up the broad waters of the River King | |
| (Then populous with a nation), journeyed he, | |
| Through that old Ireland which her poets sing; | |
| And the white vessel, breasting up the stream, | 95 |
| Moved slowly, like a ship within a dream. | |
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| When Limerick towers uprose before his gaze, | |
| A sound of music floated in the air,— | |
| Music which held him in a fixed amaze, | |
| Whose silver tenderness was alien there; | 100 |
| Notes full of murmurs of the Southern seas, | |
| And dusky olives swaying in the breeze. | |
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| His chimes! the children of the great bell-tower, | |
| Empty and silent now for many a year! | |
| He hears them ringing out the Vesper hour, | 105 |
| Owned in an instant by his loving ear. | |
| Kind angels stayed the spoiler’s hasty hand, | |
| And watched their journeying over sea and land. | |
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| The white-sailed boat moved slowly up the stream; | |
| The old man lay with folded hands at rest; | 110 |
| The Shannon glistened in the sunset beam; | |
| The bells rang gently o’er its shining breast, | |
| Shaking out music from each lilied rim: | |
| It was a requiem which they rang for him! | |
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| For when the boat was moored beside the quay, | 115 |
| He lay as children lie when lulled by song; | |
| But nevermore to waken. Tenderly | |
| They buried him wild-flowers and grass among, | |
| Where on the cross alights the wandering bird, | |
| And hour by hour the bells he loved are heard. | 120 |
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