THE BELLS.

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 tintinnabulation 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 a tale of terror now the 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,

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 pan 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.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

COVENT GARDEN MARKET.
COME to Covent Garden Market
Through the early London streets,
When the heavy country waggons
Are unloading all their sweets :

The heavy country waggons,
And the heavy country boys,
That stare in stolid wonder

At the market and its noise.

Oh! how fragrant are the flowers,
And how picture-like the fruits-
The peas and the young potatoes,
With the mould about their roots!

The pinks and early roses,

Geraniums and sweet peas,
The delicious pine-like odour
Of pottled strawberries.

See the flower-girls are tying,
Beneath each tented stall,
Bright flowers with care and neatness
Into posies large or small.

Even ferns and fairy mosses
Every child by hill and dale
May take or leave at pleasure,
Here are ticketed for sale.

Oh! the priceless country treasures!
Oh! the message that they bring

To the old care-laden city

Of the coming of the spring!

What whiffs of sudden freshness
These smoky vapours house,
From the dark and dewy pastures
Where the sheep and cattle browse!

Oh! the black and breathless pine-wood
Where yon pallid bells of blue,

Like pools of purple water,

In shadowy silence grew !

Oh! the moist mysterious sweetness
Of lilies, that were only
But yester morning breathing

In the forest vast and lonely!

For there's more within these waggons
To weary London gaze,
Than earth can weigh or measure,
Or market-man appraise.

Bright gleams of golden moorland,
Cool shadows from the trees,

A dash of ocean's freedom,

And a sprinkle of the seas ;

Sweet thoughts of home and childhood,
Of parents old and kind;
Of the cottage where the rosebuds
Throw their shadows on the blind ;-

Of days more pure and peaceful,
Of lives more simply good;
With more time for thought of heaven,
And for doing all we should.

See! yonder a poor father
Has bought his sickly son
A little bunch of cowslips

That he loves to look upon ;—

And the mother softly murmurs: 'Ah! if Will could run about

Among the cows and cowslips,

He would soon grow strong and stout.'

And she looks with tearful pity

At her darling, who has known

No home but the close city

And the bustle of the town.

And yet the sight is cheerful ;
And there's joy in many a heart,
Brought by the creaking waggons
To old London's busy mart.

CAROLINE MARIA GEMMER.