text:  Whate'er the fire bereft One blessing sweeter than all else is left-- _The faces that he loves_! He counts them o'er-- And see--not one dear look is missing from _that_ store! * * * * * Now clasp'd the bell within the clay-- The mould the mingled metals fill-- Oh may it sparkling into day Reward the labour and the skill! Alas! should it fail For the mould may be frail-- And still with our hope must be mingled the fear-- And even now while we speak the mishap may be near! To the dark womb of sacred earth This labour of our hands is given As seeds that wait the second birth And turn to blessings watch'd by heaven! Ah seeds how dearer far than they We bury in the dismal tomb Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray That suns beyond the realm of day May warm them into bloom! From the steeple Tolls the bell Deep and heavy The death-knell! Measured and solemn guiding up the road A wearied wanderer to the last abode