Classic Poem

And many, many ages pass'd away,
Their gloomy shades o'er our Bohemia flinging,
That church in melancholy ruins lay,
The tower o'erturn'd—the bell had ceas'd its ringing:
Yet when that church and tower in fragments fell,
A heavenly angel, clad in light, appearing,
Convey'd the silver relic to the well—
Zizkians! that bell will toll not in your hearing.

From that same hour the crystal waters play
Above the silver bell—in silence sleeping—
There come the thirsty sheep-flocks, as they stray,
And there the revellers of the chase are keeping
Their court—that silver bell in deep repose
Lies cold and voiceless ages without number;
The ancient woman in the water throws
Her flaxen threads—and wakes it from its slumber.

'Twas the last time its awful accents broke—
“John, John—is for the greyhound gone,” it mutter'd,
And never more to mortal ears it spoke,
Nor noise, nor word, nor whisper has it utter'd.
The neighbours seek the well—their pitchers fill,
They wash their flax—and fear pursues them never;
They know the bell's mysterious tongue is still,
And that it rests beneath the wave for ever.