Hark! to the village bell!
The red, Autumnal woodlands round,
And the old hills, repeat the sound,
Of that funureal knell!
Hark--'tis the tolling bell!
Life's precious shrine plundered,
Life's silver cord is sundered,
The bowl--lost at the well!
Where yonder groves o'erhang,
The cottager's poor hut--men bear
Their brother man, with much of care,
And many a bitter pang.
They are but simple men--
Nor purple robe, nor diadem,
Nor trumpet note, nor flaming gem,
With splendor fill the glen.
The vanities of life!
The vain parade, and show of pride,
Never have lured their feet aside
Into the paths of strife.
Gone is that funeral train!
With tearful eyes, to mourn apart;
But gladness, in the widowed heart,
Will never dwell again.
And often shall the child
Remember this day's mournful scene;
Following the black hearse, o'er the green,
Unto the churchyard wild.
