« PreviousContinue »
And the people--ah, the people-
In that muffled monotone,
On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor womanThey are neither brute nor human
They are Ghouls:
With the pæan of the bells!
Of the bells:
To the throbbing of the bellsOf 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 bellsOf the bells, bells, bells
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells
Bells, bells, bellsTo the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 113 1849.
Edgar Allan Poe.
THE BELLS OF SHANDON
With deep affection
Those Shandon bells,
Their magic spells.
Sweet Cork, of thee;
Of the River Lee.
The Bells of Shandon
But all their music
Spoke naught like thine;
Its bold notes free,
Of the River Lee.
I've heard bells tolling
From the Vatican,
Of Notre Dame;
There's a bell in Moscow,
The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Of tall minarets.
More dear to me, -
Of the River Lee. 1834.
THE DAY IS DONE
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.
The Day is Done
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
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,