Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/168

 A coarse, rough robe of hair-cloth made him,

Which from that day unchanged he wore,

Then to the wooden tower he sped him,

To be the watchman of the tower.

lo! his hand uplifted, seizeth

The bell-rope—and begins to toll—

No more the worm of conscience teazeth

His half emancipated soul.

No more the bell those awful noises

Pours—which so many hearts had riven;

It sounds like angels' silver voices,

When echoed through the courts of heaven.

only vesper-knell was sounded,

The aged watchman toll'd no more:

Death came—and there with peace surrounded,

He sank upon the belfry floor:

The frown upon his brow departed—

Some gentle hand had chas'd the frown,

And there he slumber'd—peaceful-hearted,

All guilt forgiven the guilty one.