THE CHIME.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXIII, Issue 10100, 8 April 1896, Page 3

THE CHIME.

THERE is an old French air, . A little sons of loneliness anil grief— Simple as nature, sweet- boyuiid compare— Anil sail—past all belief. Nameless is lie that wrote _ The melody—but this much I opine; Whoever made the words was Some remote French ancestor of mine, I know the dungeon deep Where long he lay— why lie lay therein, And all his anguish, that lie could not sleep, for conscience of a sin. I see his cold, hard bed; _ I hear the chimes that jingled in his ears, As he pressed nightly with that wakeful head A pillow wet with tears. Oh, r'-stloss little chime! It never changed—but rang its roundelay For each dark hour of that unhappy time That sighed itself away. And ever, more and more, Its b irden grew of his lorn self a part, And mingled with his memories, and wore Its way into his heart. And there it wove the name Of many a town he loved, for one dear sake, Into his web of music; thus he came His little son;; to make. Of all that over heard And loved it for its sweetness, none but I Divined the cjue that, as a hidden word, The notes doth underlie. That wail from lips long dead Has found its echo in lliis breast alone! Only to me—by blood remembrance led— Is that wild story known! • And though 'tis mine by right Of treasure trove to tide and lay bare— A heritage of sorrow and delight The world would gladly share. Yet I must not unfold For evermore, nor whisper late nor soon The secret that a few slight bars thus hold Imprisoned in a tune. For when that little song Goes ringing in my head, I know that he, My luckless lone forefather, dust so long, ltelievos his life in me. GEORGE DU MACRIER.