The Bells · Ulalume · Bridal Ballad

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 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 crash, 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 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.

Ulalume

The skies they were ashen and sober;
    The leaves they were crispèd 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 splendour 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 crispèd 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.”

Bridal Ballad

The ring is on my hand,
  And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
  And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;
  But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell—
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
  And who is happy now.

But he spoke to reassure me,
  And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o’er me,
And to the churchyard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D’Elormie,
  “Oh, I am happy now!”

And thus the words were spoken,
  And thus the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden token
  That proves me happy now!

Would to God I could awaken!
  For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,—
Lest the dead who is forsaken
  May not be happy now.