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Who now was asked to make a set of chimes,

A task he had accomplished many times,

But this, he thought, the highest skill compels,

And yet the work he promised to begin.

But first for thoughts and dreams he leisure found,

For consecration to the work at hand,

Since this the glory of his life should be,

A grand creation, a sweet symphony

Of human life, which all might understand,

Their souls re-echoed in the liquid sound.

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He was a man of many changing moods,

Impetuous, like mighty Angelo,

And kindly, like the saintly Raphael,

His patience, like Palissy’s, nought could quell,

In worship, like the good Angelico,

And yet the “fickled Fame” his name excludes.

He nature loved, and wandered oft alone

Mid deep recesses of some shady wood,

And listened to the many varied sounds,

From notes of birds to noise of baying hounds,

And oftentimes as if enraptured stood,

Held by the music of the undertone.

Once had he loved a maiden, in whose eyes

He read the happiness of human life,