The Viennese authorities have melted down the great bell in St.
Stephen's to supply metal for guns or muntions.
Every poor village has made a similar gift.—Lokal Anzeiger.
The great bell booms across the town, Reverberant and slow,
And drifting from their houses down The calm-eyed people go.
Their feet fall on the portal stones Their fathers' fathers trod;
And still the bell, with reverent tones,
From cottage nooks and purple thrones Is calling souls to God.
The chapel bells with ardor spake Above the poplars tall,
And perfumed Sabbath seemed to wake. Responsive to their call From dappled vale and green hillside And nestling village hives The peasants came in simple pride To hear how their Lord Jesus died To sweeten all their lives.
They boom beyond the battered town; The hills are belching smoke;
And valleys charred and ranges brown Are quaking 'neath the stroke.
The iron roar to Heaven swells, And domes and steeples nod;
Through cities vast and ferny dells And village streets the clamant bells Are calling souls to God!
