RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. IN the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun, Toll slowly! And the oldest ringer said, "Ours is music for the Dead, When the rebecks are all done." Six abeiles i' the kirkyard grow, on the northside in a row, Toll slowly! And the shadows of their tops, rock across the little slopes Of the grassy graves below. On the south side and the west, a small river runs in haste, Toll slowly! And between the river flowing, and the fair green tree a growing, Do the dead lie at their rest. On the east I sate that day, up against a willow grey: Toll slowly! Through the rain of willow-branches, I could see the low hill-ranges, And the river on its way. There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly, Toll slowly! While the trees' and rivers' voices flowed between the solemn noises,— Yet death seemed more loud to me. There, I read this ancient rhyme, while the bell did all the time Toll slowly! And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin, Like a rhythmic fate sublime. |