The Toll Of The Bells
E. J. Pratt
I
We gave them at the harbour every token—
The ritual of the guns, and at the mast
The flag half-high, and as the cortege passed,
All that remained by our dumb hearts unspoken.
And what within the band’s low requiem,
In footfall or in head uncovered fails
Of final tribute, shall at altar-rails
Around a chancel soon be offered them.
And now a throbbing organ-prelude dwells
On the eternal story of the sea;
Following in undertone, the Litany
Ends like a sobbing wave; and now begins
A tale of life’s fore-shortened days; now swells
The tidal triumph of Corinthians.
II
But neither trumpet-blast, nor the hoarse din
Of guns, nor the drooped signals from those mute
Banners, could find a language to salute
The frozen bodies that the ship brought in.
To-day the vaunt is with the grave. Sorrow
Has raked up faith and burned it like a pile
Of driftwood, scattering the ashes while
Cathedral voices anthemed God’s To-morrow.
Out from the belfries of the town there swung
Great notes that held the winds and the pagan roll
Of open seas within their measured toll,
Only the bells’ slow ocean tones, that rose
And hushed upon the air, knew how to tongue
That Iliad of Death upon the floes.
