How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at interval upon the ear
In cadence sweet; now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where Memory slept.
William Cowper, Task (bk. VI, l. 6)
Bell, thou soundest merrily,
When the bridal party
To the church doth hie!
Bell, thou soundest solemnly,
When, on Sabbath morning,
Fields deserted lie!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Hyperion (bk. III, ch. III), (quoted)
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.]
Plautus (Titus Maccius Plautus), Trinummus (IV, 2, 162)
Softly the loud peal dies,
In passing winds it drowns,
But breathes, like perfect joys,
Tender tones.
Frederick Tennyson, The Bridal
