Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluptuously 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 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 mad 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,

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 clamour and the clangour 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 paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme
To the paean 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, 1)

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 high-born kinsmen 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.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
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.

1) Virginia, or "the Old Dominion," originally colonized under the auspices of Queen Elizabeth, is here poetically called "a kingdom by the sea."

Notwithstanding his infirmities, Poe had many warm and staunch friends, among whom were Mr. N. P. Willis (author of Pencillings by the Way), and the poetess, Mrs. Frances Osgood. This lady said of him. in a letter to a friend, "I can sincerely say, that although I have frequently heard of aberrations on his part from the straight and narrow path,' I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred, and fastidiously refined. To a sensitive and delicately nurtured woman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalric, graceful, and almost tender reverence with which he invariably approached all women who won his respect. It was this which first commanded and afterwards retained my regard for him.”

H. R. Dana.

Henry Richard Dana (1787-1879), born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, is the author of the Buccaneer and other poems. The hero of the Buccaneer is a certain Matthew Lee, whose evil conscience continually conjures up before his mental vision the phantoms of the victims of his avarice and cruelty. In all probability the poem was suggested by Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, to which it has many points of resemblance. At the end of the poem the pirate is carried away by a spectre horse, which he feels himself mysteriously impelled to bestride, and from whose nostrils "streams a deathly light," which

lights the sea around their track

The curling comb and dark steel wave;
There yet sits Lee the spectre's back

Gone! gone! and none to save!

They're seen no more; the night has shut them in;
May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin!

As a more pleasing specimen of Mr. Dana's poetical

style, we shall quote his verses on

THE POWER OF THE SOUL.

Life in itself, it life to all things gives;
For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives,
Becomes an acting being, ill or good;
And, grateful to its giver, tenders food

For the Soul's health, or suffering change unblest,
Pours poison down to rankle in the breast.

As is the man, e'en so it bears its part

And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.

Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see
In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree.
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air,
Now rests, now stirs, as if a breeze were there,
Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all!
And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall;
The double strips of silvery sand unite
Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.

Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bough,
Peck not alone; that bird below, as thou,
Is busy after food, and happy too;

They're gone! Both, pleased, away together flew.

And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion, from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That run by grass and brake, with dancing beams.
Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky,
And one still, sightless level make the earth,
Like thy dull lonely, joyless Soul, a dearth.

The rill is tuneless to his ear, who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals,
As silent as unseen, amongst the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives.
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more,
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves, puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in flight,
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world: