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.