how sweet and bitter, on a winter night,

beside the palpitating fire to list,

as, slowly, distant memories alight,

to sounds of chimes that sing across the mist.

oh, happy is that bell with hearty throat,

which neither age nor time can e'er defeat,

which faithfully uplifts its pious note,

like an agèd soldier on his beat.

for me, my soul is cracked, and 'mid her cares,

would often fill with her songs the midnight airs

and oft it chances that her feeble moan

is like the wounded warrior's fainting groan,

who by a lake of blood, 'neath bodies slain,

in anguish falls, and never moves again.