THE LEGEND OF LIMERICK BELLS. BY BESSIE RAYNER PARKES. There is a convent on the Alban hill, Round whose stone roots the gnarlèd olives grow; Above are murmurs of the mountain rill, And all the broad Campagna lies below; Where faint gray buildings and a shadowy dome Suggest the splendor of eternal Rome. Hundreds of years ago, these convent-walls Were reared by masons of the Gothic age: The date is carved upon the lofty halls, The story written on the illumined page. What pains they took to make it strong and fair The tall bell-tower and sculptured porch declare. When all the stones were placed, the windows stained, And the tall bell-tower finished to the crown, Only one want in this fair pile remained, Whereat a cunning workman of the town (The little town upon the Alban hill) Toiled day and night his purpose to fulfil. Seven bells he made, of very rare devise, With graven lilies twisted up and down; Seven bells proportionate in differing size, And full of melody from rim to crown; So that, when shaken by the wind alone, They murmured with a soft AEolian tone. These being placed within the great bell-tower, And duly rung by pious skilful hand, Marked the due prayers of each recurring hour, And sweetly mixed persuasion with command. Through the gnarled olive-trees the music wound, And miles of broad Campagna heard the sound. And then the cunning workman put aside His forge, his hammer, and the tools he used To chase those lilies; his keen furnace died; And all who asked for bells were hence refused. With these his best, his last were also wrought, And refuge in the convent-walls he sought. There did he live, and there he hoped to die, Hearing the wind among the cypress-trees Hint unimagined music, and the sky Throb full of chimes borne downward by the breeze; Whose undulations, sweeping through the air, His art might claim as an embodied prayer. {196} ---- But those were stormy days in Italy: Down came the spoiler from the uneasy North, Swept the Campagna to the bounding sea, Sacked pious homes, and drove the inmates forth; Whether a Norman or a German foe, History is silent, and we do not know. Brothers in faith were they; yet did not deem The sacred precincts barred destroying hand. Through those rich windows poured the whitened beam, Forlorn the church and ruined altar stand. As the sad monks went forth, that self-same hour Saw empty silence in the great bell-tower. The outcast brethren scattered far and wide; Some by the Danube rested, some in Spain: On the green Loire the aged abbot died, By whose loved feet one brother did remain Faithful in all his wanderings: it was he Who cast and chased those bells in Italy.