I

CHIMES OF NEW-YEAR'S NIGHT.

BY BELLE BUSH.

HEARD one night the sound of many bells
Tolling, tolling,

Then rose the mournful chime of answering bells

Tolling, tolling,

Over the mountains,

Our beautiful mountains,

Waking the fountains,

Our calm, flowing fountains.

The wild winds bore me the sound of the bells
Tolling, tolling, tolling.

What are they tolling for? queried my heart; "For the Old Year," sang the voice of the Night. Is the Old Year dead? responded my heart.

"He is dead and gone," said the "noon of night," With its bells that were tolling, tolling.

Then rose and fell with resonant swells

The solemn sound of the midnight bells,

Tolling, tolling, tolling,

Over the mountains,

Our snow-covered mountains,

Greeting the fountains,

Our beautiful fountains.

The wild winds bore me the song of the bells

Till the bells of my heart seemed tolling,

Till all the bells

In the answering cells

Of my heart seemed tolling, tolling.

heart.

What are they tolling for? queried my soul.
"For the Old Year," sang the bells of my
Is the Old Year dead? responded my soul,
"He is dead and gone," said the voice of my heart,
With its bells that were sadly tolling.

Gone to his grave is the Old, Old Year,
Sang the bells of my heart in chime.

Slowly and sadly in tones sublime

The bells of my heart to the bells of time
Repeated the mournful measure,

Till over the mountains,

Our snow-covered mountains,
Kissing the fountains,

Our song-singing fountains,

The wild winds swept with a song of pleasure.

Then came a sound as of joy-bells heard,
Ringing, ringing,

And merry tones of sweet echoes stirred,

Ringing, ringing.

Up from the valleys,

Our beautiful valleys,

Over the rivers,

Our calm, flowing rivers,

Came the merry sound of the joy-bells I heard
Ringing, ringing, ringing.

What are they ringing for? queried my heart.

"For the glad New Year," sang the voice of the Morn.

Is the New Year born? cried my beating heart.

"He was born last night," said the maiden Morn, With her joy-bells merrily ringing.

VOL. II.-2

Then died away with its resonant swells
The mournful sound of the midnight bells,
The bells that were tolling, tolling.
And over the mountains,

Our brave, rugged mountains,
Greeting the fountains,

Our song-singing fountains,

Came the sweet sounds of the ringing bells,
Till the bells of my heart seemed ringing,
Till all the bells

In the echoing cells

Of my heart seemed merrily ringing.

What are they ringing for? queried my soul.

"For the glad New Year," sang the bells of my heart.

Is the New Year born? responded my soul.

"He was born last night," said the voice of my heart, With its joy-bells ringing, ringing.

"He is here,

He is here,

Here in his pride is the glad New Year,"
Sang the merry bells of time.
He is here,

He is here,

Here in his pride is the glad New Year,
Sang the bells of my heart in chime.

Thus the cry of the Night, and the voice of the Morn,
In the depths of the soul are alternately born,-
And yielding to one, we are bound by its spells
Till our thoughts flow in time to the music of bells,
To bells that are tolling, tolling.

When the other holds sway then the spirit is stirred,
By strains that are wakened when joy-bells are heard
Ringing, ringing, ringing.

'Tis the voice of our Sorrow, our cry in the night,

That counts every year and bewaileth its flight.

'Tis a sob of the wild winds, a moan of the sea,
That tells us we die, when our pinions are free.
'Tis the music of gladness, the voice of the Morn,
That bids us rejoice when a New Year is born.
'Tis the song of the Light, when it sings to the sky,
That whispers to mortals, "the years never die."
"They vanish like clouds," cries the voice of the Night;
"But their records remain," sings the Morn's rosy light.
Aye, they live in their deeds, like the spirits of men,
And we summon them back with the sweep of a pen ;
They live, and we learn from the fast-fleeting years
That the Old and the New, like our smiles and our tears,
Are closely allied, and with Sorrow and Mirth,
The heart's Night and Morn, go and come upon earth,
Succeeding each other as wave follows wave,
Each finding the cradle, the shroud, and the grave.
We learn, too, that life hath its ebb and its flow,
That the joy of one heart is another one's woe,

And the truths we are taught by the shells that are tossed
On the surf-beaten shore are, that "nothing is lost,"
That strong is the tie linking brother to brother,
And the flight of one year brings the dawn of another.

But the years never die, for the lessons they give
In the heart of humanity cluster and live.
Their joys and their sorrows, their pleasures and pain,
All the pomp and the pageant that come in their train;
The hopes and the dreams of the young and the old,
Their searches for knowledge, their strivings for gold,
All the smiles and the tears, all the laughter and songs
Denoting man's conflicts, his triumphs and wrongs;
All the flowers that are rocked in the cradles of Spring,
All the birds that go by them with quivering wing;
All the roses that bloom in the gardens of June,
All the fountains that sing when their harps are in tune;
All the jewels of thought, and the truths that men get,
All the stars that are bright'ning on time's coronet;

All these on eternity's ocean are tossed,

And the voice of the Ages cries, "Nothing is lost."

But I hear yet again the sad cry of the Night,—
I see the dark shadows obscuring her sight;
Then I travel in thought o'er the track of the ages
Where History dwells, and I read the dark pages
Revealing man's sorrows, self-tortures and woes,

Till my heart feels the struggles, my soul bears the throes
That Humanity feels, that Humanity knows,

Have tortured her children, who sighed for repose.

Hate and Scorn rule the world, cries the Sorrowful Night,
Her tears ever falling, bedimming her sight;

I list till each heart-pulse throbs heavy with pain,
And I look where she points, to a long moving train
Of sorrowful souls who on earth gave their tears,
Their sighs and their groans to the hymn of the years.
Then I grieve, and I sing with the grief-haunted Night,
Oh! world, thou art weary, and age dims thy sight;
But Truth is still crushed 'neath the hard heel of might,
And thy martyrs, O Earth! are the heroes of Right.
Wrong sits in high places, and holy Love still
Bears her cross and her sorrows to Calvary's hill.
How long, oh! how long, cries my heart with the Night,
Shall these things endure and God stay his might ?—
"Till He's ready to smite," sings the radiant Morn,

With her roses and robes of the orient born;

"Till He's ready to smite," and then heal with the power

That patiently counsels the deeds of the hour;

Till He's ready to smite with the power of his truth,

That, angel-like, dwells by the fountains of youth,

That never grows old, and never is crushed,

And the voice of whose singing can never be hushed;

Till He's ready to heal with the wisdom of love,

That condemns not, but shows where the world may improve

That, tracing His plans and His purposes far,

Sees a mote have its uses as well as a star,