Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In a clamorous 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 endeavor
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,

Iren bells!

[pels!

What a world of solemn thought their monody com

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 telling, 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 pæan 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.

ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know,
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea:

But we loved with a love that was more than love,—
I and my ANNABEL LEE;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me,-

Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my ANNABEL Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my

soul from the soul

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:

[dreams

For the moon never beams, without bringing me

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling-my darling—my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

ULALUME.

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere,-
The leaves they were withering and sere,-
It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid-region of Weir,—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my soul,-
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll—
As the lavas that restlessly roll-
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek,
In the realms of the boreal pole.