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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-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !

Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells !
What a 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 endeavour

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, Bythe sinking orthe swelling in the anger of the bells

Of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells !

Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells ! What a world of solemnthought 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 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 pæan 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.

Edgar A. Poe.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A

CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry !

And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry.”
“Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle,

This dark and stormy water ?
“Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonnie bride,

When they have slain her lover ? " Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady;
And, by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry !”
By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer. “Oh, haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,

Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,-

His wrath was changed to wailing,

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