James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
September 19The Bells at Midnight
By Thomas Bailey Aldrich (18361907)
In their dark House of Cloud
The three weird sisters toil till time be sped;
One unwinds life, one ever weaves the shroud,
One waits to part the thread.
CLOTHO.
Ere the weary task is done?
How long, O sister, how long
Shall the fragile thread be spun?
Else she had cut the thread;
She is a woman too,
Like her who kneels by his bed!
He shall no more endure:
See! with a single touch!—
My hand is swift and sure!
An instant ago on my ear—
A sound like the throb of a bell
From yonder darkling sphere.
I hear it not … yes, I hear;
How it deepens—a sound of dole!
Of a passing soul—
The midnight lamentation
Of some stricken nation
For a chieftain’s soul!
It is just begun,
The many-throated moan …
Now the clangor swells
As if a million bells
Had blent their tones in one!
Accents of despair
Are these to mortal ear;
But all this wild funereal music blown
And sifted through celestial air
Turns to triumphal pæans here!
Wave upon wave the silvery anthems flow;
Wave upon wave the deep vibrations roll
From that dim sphere below.
Come, let us go—
Surely, some chieftain’s soul!