HE

The Bells.

EAR the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells-

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, beils, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight,
From the molten-golden notes!
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that istens, while she gloats On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

THE BELLS.

Hear the loud alarum bells—

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now-now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar !
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear, it fully knows,

By the twanging

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

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By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—

Of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !

In the silence of the night

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats,
Is a groan:

And the people--ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls!

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells-
Of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-

To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-

THE RAVEN.

Bells, bells, bells,—

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

EDGAR A. POE.

253

The Raven.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak

and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a

tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber

door.

"'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door :

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple

curtain,

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors

before;

never felt

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood re

peating,

"T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more.”

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Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber

door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there, and nothing more!

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream

before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no

token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before. Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window

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lattice;

Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore,Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ;'T is the wind, and nothing more!"

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or

stayed he;