Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/183



is a mightie Noyse of Bells, Rushing from the turret free; A solemn tale of Truthe it tells, O'er Land and Sea, How heartes be breaking fast, and then Wax whole againe.

Poor fluttering Soule! why tremble soe, To quitt Lyfe's fast decaying Tree; Time wormes its core, and it must bowe To Fate's decree; Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare, For Evermore.

Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth; Far under shal its shadows flee, And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth Growe strange to thee.