Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,
    Upon a Christmas morn. 
  Outbreaking as the angels did,
    For a Redeemer born! 
  How merrily they call afar,
    To cot and baron’s hall,
  With holly decked and mistletoe,
    To keep the festival!

  The chimes of England, how they peal
    From tower and Gothic pile,
  Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
    The dim cathedral aisle;
  Where windows bathe the holy light
    On priestly heads that falls,
  And stains the florid tracery
    Of banner-dighted walls!

  And then, those Easter bells, in spring,
    Those glorious Easter chimes! 
  How loyally they hail thee round,
    Old Queen of holy times! 
  From hill to hill like sentinels,
    Responsively they cry,
  And sing the rising of the Lord,
    From vale to mountain high.

  I love ye, chimes of Motherland,
    With all this soul of mine,
  And bless the Lord that I am sprung
    Of good old English line: 
  And like a son I sing the lay
    That England’s glory tells;
  For she is lovely to the Lord,
    For you, ye Christian bells!

  And heir of her historic fame,
    Though far away my birth,
  Thee, too, I love, my Forest-land,
    The joy of all the earth;
  For thine thy mother’s voice shall be,
    And here, where God is king,
  With English chimes, from Christian spires,
    The wilderness shall ring.

ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

* * * * *

THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR.

  I have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam,
  That trembled to earth in the patriarch’s dream,
  Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest,
  From the pillar of stone to the blue of the blest. 
  And the angels descending to dwell with us here,
  “Old Hundred,” and “Corinth,” and “China,” and “Mear.”

  “Let us sing to God’s praise,” the minister said. 
  All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at “York”;
  Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,
  While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,
  And politely picked up the key-note with a fork;
  And the vicious old viol went growling along
  At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song.

  All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod,
  That those breaths can blow open to heaven and God! 
  Ah, “Silver Street” flows by a bright shining road,—­
  Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,—­
  But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned choir,
  To the girl that sang alto—­the girl that sang air!

  Oh, I need not a wing—­bid no genii come
  With a wonderful web from Arabian loom,
  To bear me again up the river of Time,
  When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme—­
  Where the streams of the years flowed so noiseless and narrow,
  That across it there floated the song of the sparrow—­