The Bell TowerA Poem by David Lewis PagetThe
Italian village, Viternium Sits
down in a bee-loud glade, It
once was a stop on the way to Rome Where
the men of the Legions played, The
women had still the come-hither eyes That
the soldiers from colder climes, Once
left behind in their sweet forays With
the girls who were drunk with wine. The
vineyards trailed up the mountainside As
they’d done for two thousand years, The
grapes the same for the wine that came To
be used by the Holy Church, The
myths and legends lay thick round there With
the superstitious folk, Who
hurried on home to bar the doors That
were made from Italian oak. Then
after the evening meal was done And
the men lay down to rest, The
women knelt by an altar piece And
prayed that their home was blessed, They
listened hard for the ghostly bell That
would tell when the demons come, It
hadn’t been heard for a hundred years, No
bell in Viternium! But
when the ground would rumble and shake As
it did, every now and then, The
shelves would rattle, the houses quake And
the children cry in the pen, They’d
tell each other that age old tale Of
the tower that stood on the hill, A
blackened tower of ancient stone That
was home to a monstrous bell. They
said that the mountain closed on it In
the mightiest quake of all, But
fifteen generations had passed Since
the mountain swallowed it all, But
then, the winter was coming on And
the quakes began too soon, The
ground was rumbling every day, And
into the afternoon. The
clouds were gathering black and grey As
the thunder rolled off the hill, The
ground beneath them shuddered and swayed With
a roar like the hounds of Hell. The
mountain burst with a mighty crack And
debris flew through the air, And
when the tumult had stopped at last They
saw that the tower was there! A
tower black from an ancient fire And
a bell, beginning to toll, It
rang on down through the valley, put A
shiver in every soul, They
saw that the bell-rope rose and fell With
nobody there to ring, But
still the bell continued to toll For
the folk of Viternium. The
elders thought that a sacrifice Might
appease the gods of old, Took a Signorina virgin, then Adorned
her with marigolds, They
led her up to the blackened tower While
her mother shrieked to drop, Tied
the bell-rope around her neck And
prayed that the bell would stop! The
rope rose up and it took the girl Then
dropped and it rose again, The
girl was dead by the second drop, At
least she wasn’t in pain, But
still the bell in the blackened tower Rocked
back and forth in the rack, Tolling
the bell in an ancient spell For
the Legions to come back. The
village is overgrown today And
the vines grow wild on the hill, The
cottages have collapsed, they say Destroyed
by the tolling bell, There’s
not a man nor a woman there For
the place is known as ‘Hell!’ While
a virgin girl swings up and down In
time to the tolling bell. David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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