The Factory-Bell.

THE FACTORY-BELL.

THE Factory-Bell is softly tolling,
Stealing through the Summer air,
Gently o’er the meadows rolling,
Reaching scenes of Nature fair.

But alas! its tones, though mellow,
Bring a sadness to my heart,
And the realms that these should hallow,
Take of shade and gloom a part.

For it calls from scenes of beauty,
From the lovely summer day,
Gentle hearts that often languish
For their native haunts away.

From green Erin’s rural pleasures,
From stern Scotia’s heather hills,
From old England’s home-born treasures,
To the toiling of the Mills.

But for all, and blessed forever,
One o’errules the multitude,
The all-wise, the great Protector,
Who from sin educes good.

Thus when fate seems unrelenting,
And the way is dark and drear,
In the mist his arm preventing
Keeps the lowly ones from fear;

Gives unto their hearts his spirit,
Brighter than the noonday sun,
Wealth the poorest may inherit,
Through his guardian mercy won.

But oh! ye who rule and dictate
For your own base, selfish ends,
Nature and her God rebuke you,
And at last require amends.

For the balances are nicely
Fitted and adjusted true.
What man taketh God returneth;
Naught escapes his sovereign view.

Still the Factory-Bell is ringing
O’er the landscape, soft and clear.
I will trust that God is bringing
With it hopes the sad to cheer.