FROM the clouded belfry calling, br Hear my soft ascending swells; br Hear my notes like swallows falling; br I am Bega, least of bells. br When great Turkeful rolls and rings br All the storm-touched turret swings, br Echoing battle, loud and long. br When great Tatwin wakening roars br To the far-off shining shores, br All the seamen know his song. br I am Bega, least of bells: br In my throat my message swells. br I with all the winds a-thrill, br Murmuring softly, murmuring still, br 'God around me, God above me, br God to guard me, God to love me.' br br I am Bega, least of bells, br Weaving wonder, wind-born spells. br High above the morning mist, br Wreathed in rose and amethyst, br Still the dreams of music float br Silver from my silver throat, br Whispering beauty, whispering peace. br When great Tatwin's golden voice br Bids the listening land rejoice, br br When great Turkeful rings and rolls br Thunder down to trembling souls, br Then my notes like curlews flying, br Lifting, falling, sinking, sighing, br Softly answer, softly cease. br I with all the airs at play br Murmuring sweetly, murmuring say, br 'God around me, God above me, br God to guard me, God to love me.