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.

III.

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 clamourous 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 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 clamour and the clangour 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

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-

Bells, bells, bells,

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

Hawthorndale Village.

I.

I REMEMBER the scene when at evening's soft hour,

I wandered with thee, love, down Hawthorndale lane; When the rose breathes its freshness more sweet through the shower, That left on its buds the round silver-dropped rain.

II.

High arched and embowered and spanning the way,
Hang the trees making twilighted towers of green;
While amid the thick underwood here and there lay
Deep dashes of gold, that enlivened the scene.

III.

With arm in arm locked, love-far onward we roved,
Across the dim forest-paths 'neath the blue skies,
And we talked about nothing but how much we loved,
While I gazed on the diamonds I saw in thine eyes.

IV.

And then the sun set o'er the far distant hills,

We saw his last rays as he reddened the plain,

And threw a deep light on the golden-faced rills,
Then I whispered, and all, love, seemed silent again.

V.

The silver-tongued river went babbling along,
And heedlessly jostled the pebbles in play,
Though sometimes it loitered and stopped in its song,
Then on again went its meandering way.

VI.

Dos't remember the mavis that strutted so fast,

The merle as it watched us with one eye askance ; While he picked up the worms from the road as we past, And ceased now and then, love, to give us a glance.

VII.

While another high perched on a pear tree close by,
Suspended back downwards there feasting he clung,
How little he thought that the snarer was nigh,

While thus merry he flapped his full wings as he hung.

VIII.

Close hovering near, love, a red hawk we saw,

So stealthily watching the feasting he made,

Then dashing 'mid the branches his broad yellow claw,
Bore the bird away screaming to some distant glade.

IX.

The sturdy old oak-tree where 't was felled, there it lay,
And many a year had it weathered the storm;

The green moss and long grass and the wild bramble's spray,
Encircling and hiding its prostrated form.

X.

On the bark of that tree I had carved out your name

Full five years ago, though it seems but a span,
And I traced that lone way, love, to show you the same;
How changed is the scene, love; how altered the man.

XI.

The moon rose majestic unclouded and bright,

And in triumph she rode through the blue eastern sky, While the wave 'neath her splendour was dancing in light, Just ruffling its hues as the low breeze passed by.