The Bells
By Edgar Allan Poe
I.
Hear the sledges with the
bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle,
tinkle,
In the icy
air of night!
While the stars that
oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to
twinkle
With a
crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time,
time,
In a sort of Runic
rhyme,
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells,
bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding
bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of
night
How they ring out their
delight!
From the
molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a
liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the
sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the
Future! how it tells
Of the
rapture that impels
To the swinging and
the ringing
Of the
bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells,
bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum
bells—
Brazen bells!
What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to
speak,
They can only 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—
Iron 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!
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 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—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who
tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pćan from the bells!
And his merry
bosom swells
With the pćan of the bells!
And he dances,
and he yells;
Keeping time,
time, time,
In a sort of
Runic rhyme,
To the pćan 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.
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