The Lost Bells.

Year after year the artist wrought
    With earnest, loving care,
The music flooding all his soul
    To pour upon the air.

For this no metal was too rare,
    He counted not the cost;
Nor deemed the years in which he toiled
    As labor vainly lost.

When morning flushed with crimson light
    The golden gates of day,
He longed to fill the air with chimes
    Sweet as a matin's lay.

And when the sun was sinking low
    Within the distant West,
He gladly heard the bells he wrought
    Herald the hour of rest.

The music of a thousand harps
    Could never be so dear
As when those solemn chants and thrills
    Fell on his list'ning ear.

He poured his soul into their chimes,
    And felt his toil repaid;
He called them children of his soul,
    His home a'near them made.


But evil days came on apace,
    War spread his banner wide,
And from his village snatched away
    The artist's love and pride.

At dewy morn and stilly eve
    The chimes no more he heard;
With dull and restless agony
    His spirit's depths was stirred.

A weary longing filled his soul,
    It bound him like a spell;
He left his home to seek the chimes -
    The chimes he loved so well.

Where lofty fanes in grandeur rose,
    Upon his ear there fell
No music like the long lost chimes
    Of his beloved bell.

And thus he wandered year by year.
    Touched by the hand of time,
Seeking to hear with anxious heart
    Each well remembered chime.

And to that worn and weary heart
    There came a glad surcease:
He heard again the dear old chimes,
    And smiled and uttered peace.


"The chimes! the chimes!" the old man cried,
    "I hear their tones at last;"
A sudden rapture filled his heart,
    And all his cares were past.

Yes, peace had come with death's sweet calm,
    His journeying was o'er,
The weary, restless wanderer
    Had reached the restful shore.

It may be that he met again,
    Enfolded in the air,
The dear old chimes beside the gates
    Where all is bright and fair;

That he who crossed and bowed his head
    When Angelus was sung
In clearer light touched golden harps
    By angel fingers strung.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was an African American abolitionist, suffragist, poet, teacher, public speaker, and writer. Born free in Baltimore, Maryland, she was one of the first African American women to be published in the United States. She was active in social reform movements and used her poetry and prose to advocate for abolition and women's rights. Her best-known works include the poetry collection "Forest Leaves" and the novel "Iola Leroy."

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Then And Now.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

The Present Age.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

An Appeal To My Countrywomen.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

Dandelions.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

English

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