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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508122" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Chapel Bell</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask<br> Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,<br> Am now enforst a far unfitter task<br> For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,&quot;<br> For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air<br>Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell,<br> That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;<br> And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,<br> To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.<br> Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,<br>Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers<br> Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest,<br> One being awakening to religious awe?<br> Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?<br> Or rather, do not all reluctant creep<br>To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray<br> Chiming from village church its chearful sound,<br> When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day,<br> And all the rustic train are gathered round,<br> Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best<br>And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day,<br> The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,<br> As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way,<br> The minster curfew's sullen roar I know;<br> I pause and love its solemn toll to hear,<br>As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell<br> Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear<br> As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell<br> Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear<br> Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep<br>And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But thou, memorial of monastic gall!<br> What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?<br> Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall<br> The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven;<br> And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone,<br>And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Southey">Robert Southey</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508122" data-title="To The Chapel Bell de Robert Southey" data-description="&quot;Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
 Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
 Am now enforst a far unfitter task
 For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,&quot;
 For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the l..."></div>
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