And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

_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 the 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 tw.a.n.ging, 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 tolling, tolling, tolling, In that m.u.f.fled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute or 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.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

INTERLEAVES

_Sports and Pastimes_

In ancient tapestries, centuries old, you sometimes see, wrought in delicate needlework that is faded with the lapse of years, pictures of the sports of the period. There will be quaint scenes showing otter and bear hunting, swans' nesting, hawking, chasing the deer, and the like; in-door scenes, too, depicting pretty pages strumming musical instruments, and lovely ladies at their tambour or 'broidery frames.

The poetry of each pa.s.sing age preserves pictures of its plays and diversions still more perfectly than worn and tattered tapestry, and the verses we have chosen cover a bewildering variety of pastimes and recreations. The poets have sounded the praises of almost every kind of sport: angling, swimming, skating, bubble-blowing, going a-Maying, walking, riding, whittling, nutting, the country pleasures of "the barefoot boy," the joys of reading, the delights of music, and the exhilarations of cruising and travelling. One poem of the immediate present, Beeching's "Bicycling Song," shows us that the sport of the moment need not of necessity be too commonplace to be wrought into verse. At first thought the amus.e.m.e.nts of these latter days are so swift and breathless, so complicated with steam, electricity, and other great forces of the new era, that they seem less poetic than the picturesque frolics of milkmaids and shepherds, the games of the old Greeks or the gay sports of the days of chivalry. But after all, as Lowell said, "there is as much poetry in the iron horses that eat fire as in those of Diomed that fed on men. If you cut an apple across, you may trace in it the lines of the blossom that the bee hummed around in May; and so the soul of poetry survives in things prosaic."

VII

SPORTS AND PASTIMES

_Blowing Bubbles_

SEE, the pretty Planet!

Floating sphere!

Faintest breeze will fan it Far or near;

World as light as feather; Moonshine rays, Rainbow tints together, As it plays;

Drooping, sinking, failing, Nigh to earth, Mounting, whirling, sailing, Full of mirth;

Life there, welling, flowing, Waving round; Pictures coming, going, Without sound.

Quick now, be this airy Globe repell'd!

Never can the fairy Star be held.

Touch'd--it in a twinkle Disappears!

Leaving but a sprinkle, As of tears.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

_Bicycling Song_

With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

"Is this, is this your joy?

O bird, then I, though a boy, For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!"