The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1876-01-27
The Bells of Limerick.

The ola bells that hung in the tower OF
the Limerick cathedral were made by a
young Italian after many years of patient
toll He was proud OF his work. and
When they we've purchased by the prior OF
nelghborlng convent near the Lake of
Como, the artist invested the profits OF
the sale IN pretty villa on the margin of
the lake, where he could hear their l41age-
HtS music waited from the convent cliff
across the waters at morning, noon and
night: Here he intended to pass his life !;
but this happiness was denied him. In
one OF those teudal broils which, whether
civil OF foreign, are the undving worm In
1aIlen land, he suffered the loss of his
all; and when the storm passed he found
himself without home, family, friends
and fortune. The convent had been
RACED to the ground, and the cAe7sa'aalrre
OF his handiwork, the tuneful chime
whose music had charmed his listening
ear Tor SO many happy days of his past
lie mad been carried away to a foreign
Iand. lie became wanderer. His hair
grew White and his heart withered before
ne again found resting-place. In all
lhese years OF his bitter desolation the
memory OF the music of his bells never
lelt nm; he heard it in the forest and in
the crowded city, on the sea and by the
banks OF the quiet stream in the basin of
the hills he heard it by day: and when
night came, and troubled sleep. if wbjs-
pered to him soothinglv of peace and
happiness. One day he met a mariner
from over the seas, who told him a story
OF wondrous chime of bells he had
n pnI nd
artist that they were his bells He Jour
neyed and voyaged thther, sick and
weary, and sailed up the Shannon. The
snip came to anchor in the port near
Limerick, and he took passage in a small
boat tor the purpose of reaching the city.
Before him the tall steeple of St. Mary S
lifted Its turreted head above the mist
and smoke of the old town He leaned
back YEARLY. Yet with happy light
beaming from his eyes. The angels were
whispering to him that his bells were
there. lie prayed: "Oh, let them sound
me loving welcome Just one note of
greeting, o bells and my pilgrimage is
done :"
1t was beautiful evening. The air
was like that OF his own Italy in the
sweetest time Of the year, the death OF
the spring. The bosom of the river was
Ike a broad mirror, rejecting the patines
OF bright gold that flecked the blue SKY,
the towers, and the streets of the old
town in its clear depths. The lights of
the city danced upon the wayelets that
rippled from the boat as she glided along.
Suddenly the stiffness was broken From
st. Mary's tower there came a shower OF
silver sound, filling the air with music.
The boatmen rested on their oars to lis
ten The old Italian crossed his arms
and fixed his streaming eyes upon the
tower. The SQUAD Of his bells bore to his
heart all the sweet memories Of his buried
past; home, friends. kindred all. AT
last he was happy-too happy to speak,
too happy to breathe When the rowers
sought to arouse him. his face was mp
turned to the tower, but his eyes were
closed, The poor stranger had breathed
ms last. His own chet$-Tourre had rung
ms passing bells" EMILY V. Battey,
IN Harper's Magazine for January