The Bells

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 stoneThey are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor humanThey 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 pæan 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 belis;
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.

1849.

113

Edgar Allan Poe.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON

WITH deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,
In the days of childhood,
Fling around my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glib rate

Brass tongues would vibrate

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The Bells of Shandon
But all their music

Spoke naught like thine;
For memory dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of the belfry knelling

Its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old "Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly,

O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow,

While on tower and kiosk O!

In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets,

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32

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

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8

12

The Day is Done

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

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