CLIX. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME. HERE is a land, of every land the pride, TH Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; The wandering mariner, whose eye explores Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? J. Montgomery. What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats O, from out the sounding cells, How it dwells On the future! how it tells Of rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of time, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, •And a resolute endeavor, Now now to sit, or never, What a tale their terror tells How they clang, and clash, and roar! On the bosom of the palpitating air! By the twanging And the clanging, 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! 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! From the rust within their throats, And the people-ah, the people- And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 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, Keeping time, time, time To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells — To the sobbing of the bells; As he knells, knells, knells, To the tolling of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells; Bells, bells, bells To the moaning and the groaning of the bells! E. A. Poe. CLXI. THE RAVEN. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, - Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow, From my books, surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken and the darkness gave no token, |