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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 clamourous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire

Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a resolute endeavour
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,

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!

IV.

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,

E

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—
Bells, bells, bells-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
EDGAR A. POE.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

HOU lingering star with lessening ray,

TH

That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

Oh Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget !—
Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past!
Thy image at our last embrace-

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ;

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene.

The flowers sprung wanton to be press'd,
The birds sung love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods, with miser care,
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

BURNS.

"THE NORTHERN STAR."

[A TYNEMOUTH SHIP.]

HE Northern Star

THE

Sail'd over the bar,

Bound to the Baltic Sea

In the morning grey

She stretch'd away,—

'Twas a weary day to me.

For many an hour,

In sleet and shower,

By the lighthouse rock I stray;

And watch till dark

For the winged barque

Of him that is far away.

The castle's bound1

I wander round

Amidst the grassy graves,

But all I hear

Is the north wind drear,

And all I see are the waves.

The Northern Star

Is set afar

Set in the Baltic Sea;

And the waves have spread

The sandy bed

That holds my love from me.

TE

TO LUCASTA,

GOING TO THE WARRES.

[PUBLISHED 1649.]

I.

ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the Nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To Warre and Armes I flie.

II.

True, a new Mistresse now I chase,
The first Foe in the Field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A Sword, a Horse, a Shield.

1 The castle's bound-Tynemouth castle, the grounds of which are used as a cemetery, or were when this was written.

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