CIV.
             
        The time draws near the birth of Christ;
            The moon is hid, the night is still;
            A single church below the hill
        Is pealing, folded in the mist.

        A single peal of bells below,
            That wakens at this hour of rest
            A single murmur in the breast,
        That these are not the bells I know.

        Like strangers’ voices here they sound,
            In lands where not a memory strays,
            Nor landmark breathes of other days,
        But all is new unhallow’d ground.