REFLECTIONS ON HEARING A CHURCH BELL.
By C. T. Catlin
HARK! hark to the music of yon ringing bell,
As peal upon peal of pride it doth tell.
Full many a dollar has placed it on high,
To drown with its clamor the poor Christian's sigh. Far off on the breeze, its metallic tone
Is wafted triumphant o'er poverty's groan;
And most are delighted to hear—O for shame!—
What a glorious bell they can boast in their fane. The sick man is dying on yon garret floor;
And orphans are begging beside of thy door;
The widow is wiping the tear from her cheek,
As she thinks what she's earned for her babes thro' the week. But churchmen don't heed it, the proud and the gay,
As they dress for inspection and hasten away;
The feathers are flying, and flounces do wave,
As the ladies go swinging themselves through the nave. There sits an old Deacon, as sober as Time,
Not thinking his grinding the poor is a crime;
And there, the gay singers with chanting await
The rising of Parson, all drest up in state. And hark! how the organ rolls deafening praise,
In full diapason, on this blest of days:
While the poor seek the gallery or uncushioned seat
'Way back in some corner, or at others' feet. And now up arises the preacher in form,
And reads a few stanzas—all powdered and shorn;
And when the choir rings it admirably o'er,
He riseth and prayeth, in form, as before. The heavens above him—just under the roof,
Return him an answer, in echoes of proof
That his prayer is accepted: and the people are pleased,
'Tis all he expected, and hence he is eased. Great God! is this worship? Can this be a place
Where Jesus conferreth his blood purchased grace!
Can he, who did wander, without house or home,
Bless such an assemblage, beneath such a dome!— While widows are weeping, and orphan's seek bread,
And His poor disciples lie dying and dead,
With none to care for them or give them relief
Among the professors of pop'lar belief? Stop! stop, you, friend sexton! stay ringing that bell!
It seems but the music that leadeth to hell;
It calls for the gay, in gay tones, to come in
And learn the religion that cloaks over sin. O stay, for God's sake! pray ring it no more!
Tear down that high steeple, and close up that door;
Burn all the church trappings, and never again
Call out an assemblage of such Christian men. The ground underneath thee is trembling now,
The curse upon Bab'lon will soon lay her low;
Fly! fly! ere the day of God's vengeance is come,
And you, like a Judas, sink down to your home.