Эдгар По - Works of Edgar Allan Poe

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.

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 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 toiling, toiling, toiling,

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 pean from the bells!

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,

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.

________

The End | Go to top

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.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--

Our memories were treacherous and sere--

For we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year--

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber--

(Though once we had journeyed down here)--

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now as the night was senescent

And star-dials pointed to morn--

As the sun-dials hinted of morn--

At the end of our path a liquescent

And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent

Arose with a duplicate horn--

Astarte's bediamonded crescent

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:

She rolls through an ether of sighs--

She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion

To point us the path to the skies--

To the Lethean peace of the skies--

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes--

Come up through the lair of the Lion,

With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust--

Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--

Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

Wings till they trailed in the dust--

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust--

Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:

Let us on by this tremulous light!

Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming

With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--

See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

And be sure it will lead us aright--

We safely may trust to a gleaming

That cannot but guide us aright,

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

And tempted her out of her gloom--

And conquered her scruples and gloom;

And we passed to the end of a vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb--

By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,

On the door of this legended tomb?"

She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume--

'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

As the leaves that were crisped and sere--

As the leaves that were withering and sere;

And I cried--"It was surely October

On this very night of last year

That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--

That I brought a dread burden down here!

On this night of all nights in the year,

Ah, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--

This misty mid region of Weir--

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

________

The End | Go to top

To Helen

I saw thee once--once only--years ago:

I must not say how many--but not many.

It was a July midnight; and from out

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,

Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,

There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,

With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,

Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--

Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses

That gave out, in return for the love-light,

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--

Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses

That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted

By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank

I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon

Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,