VII.

  Full fleetly sped the morning hours;
  Then, wide upon the country round
  A tumult of melodious powers
  In tumult of melodious sound
  Burst forth from all the village towers.

  With blow on blow, and tone on tone,
  And echoes answering everywhere—­
  Like bugles from the mountains blown—­
  Each sought to whelm the burdened air,
  And make the silence all its own.

  In broad, sonorous, silver swells
  The air was billowed like the sea;
  And listening ears were listening shells
  That caught the Sabbath minstrelsy,
  And sang it with the singing bells.

  The billows heaved, the billows broke,
  The first wild burst went down amain;
  The music fell to slower stroke,
  And in a rhythmic, bold refrain
  The great bells to each other spoke.

  Oh bravely bronze gave forth his word,
  And sharply silver made reply,
  And every tower and turret stirred
  With sounding breath and converse high,
  Or paused with waiting ear, and heard.

  And long they talked, as friend to friend;
  Then faltered to their closing toll,
  Whose long, monotonous repetend,
  From every music-burdened bowl
  Poured the last drop, and brought the end!

  VIII.

  The chapel’s chime fell slow and soft,
  And throngs slow-marching to its knoll
  From village home and distant croft,
  With careful feet and reverent soul
  Pressed toward the open door, but oft

  Turned curious and expectant eyes
  Upon the Manse that stood apart. 
  There in her quiet, bridal guise
  Fair Mildred sat with shrinking heart;
  While Philip, bold and over wise,

  And knowing naught of woman’s ways,
  Smiled at her fears, and could not guess
  How one so armored in his praise,
  And strong in native loveliness,
  Could dread to meet his people’s gaze.

  He could not know her fine alarm
  When at his manly side she stood,
  And, leaning faintly on his arm—­
  A dainty slip of womanhood—­
  Walked forth where every girlish charm

  Was scanned with prying gaze and glance,
  Among the slowly moving crowd
  That, greedy of the precious chance,
  Read furtively, but half aloud,
  The pages of their new romance.

  “A child!” And Mildred caught the word. 
  “A plaything!” And, another voice: 
  “Fine feathers, and a Southern bird!”
  And still one more; “A parson’s choice!”
  And trembling Mildred overheard.

  These from the careless or the dull—­
  Gossips at best; at wisest, dolts;
  And though her quickened ear might cull
  From out their whispered thunderbolts
  A “lovely!” and a “beautiful!”

  And though sweet mother-faces smiled,
  And bows were given with friendly grace,
  And many a pleasant little child
  Sought sympathy within her face,
  Her aching heart was not beguiled.