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Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.
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O Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling, O Grave, thy Victoree? The bells of hell go ling-a-ling-a-ling For you but not for me.
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Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be.
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Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
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Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky.
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Ring out, will bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light.
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Seize the loud, vociferous fells, and Clashing, clanging to the pavement Hurl them from their windy tower!
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Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.
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Sweet Sunday bells! your measured sound Enhances the repose profound Of all these golden fields around, And range of mountain, sunshine-drowned.
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That all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul–the dinner bell.
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The Bell never rings of itself; unless some one handles or moves it it is dumb. Lat., Nunquam aedepol temere tinniit tintinnabulum; Nisi quis illud tractat aut movet, mutum est, tacet.
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The bells themselves are the best of preachers, Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon and now a prayer.
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The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.
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The church-going bell.
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The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best, quoth he. Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe The Brides of Enderby.
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The vesper bell from far That seems to mourn for the expiring day.
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Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou are crowned, not that I am dead.
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These bells have been anointed, And baptized with holy water!
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Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a take their music tells! Of youth and home and the sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime.
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Tuned be its metal mouth alone To things eternal and sublime. And as the swift-winged hours speed on May it record the flight of time!
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