’Tis sweet to hear the Sab­bath bell,
Whose soft and sil­ve­ry chime
Breaks on the ears with fall and swell,
Wafting our thoughts from time.
I love to hear its mel­low strain
Come float­ing up the dell;
While wend­ing to that sac­red fane,
Where chimes the Sab­bath bell.

How me­mo­ry min­gles with that peal!
How hours of oth­er years!
How sad the thoughts, while pen­sive steal
My slow­ly trick­ling tears!
Thoughts, mourn­ful to my bo­som lone,
Yet, those I would not quell;
For, sooth­ing to my grief, that tone
Of time, sweet Sab­bath bell.

A few years more, the winds, so bland,
Will bid young flow­ers wave,
Which, oh, per­haps some kind­ly hand
Will plant around my grave!
I’ll miss thy dear, fa­mil­iar voice,
Which, ah, so oft could tell
My heart, tho’ tem­pest tossed, re­joice,
Thou dear, dear Sab­bath bell.