By the fide of the pale-faced moon— What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang and clafh and roar ! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear diftinctly tells In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger finks and swells, By the finking 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 filence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the ruft within their throats Is a groan And the people-ah the people They that dwell up in the fteeple, 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- And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls, .. A pean from the bells! Keeping time, time, time, To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells,— To the sobbing of the bells; 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. |