Pealing.

Cameron, Alfred Tennyson, 1865

"If indeed there haunt

   About the mouldered lodges of the Past

   So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men,

   Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool

   And so pace by:  but thine are fancies hatched

   In silken-folded idleness; nor is it

   Wiser to weep a true occasion lost,

   But trim our sails, and let old bygones be,

   While down the streams that float us each and all

   To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,

   Throne after throne, and molten on the waste

   Becomes a cloud:  for all things serve their time

   Toward that great year of equal mights and rights,

   Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end

   Found golden:  let the past be past; let be

   Their cancelled Babels:  though the rough kex break

   The starred mosaic, and the beard-blown goat

   Hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree split

   Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear

   A trumpet in the distance pealing news

   Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns

   Above the unrisen morrow" ... 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, from "The Princess"