The Bells, and Other Poems

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 22

head--
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
Of Rosy head that, towering far away
Into the sunlight ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die--
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature love's the best for Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peerèd out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
Achaian statues in a world so rich?
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis--
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
Is now upon thee--but too late to save!

Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distant dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?

But what is this?--it cometh, and it brings
A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe,
She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.


Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
Fountains were

Last Page Next Page

Text Comparison with The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5

Page 15
Indeed, they soon became sworn friends.
Page 18
"Hop-Frog! I will make a man of you.
Page 19
Its waxen drippings (which, in weather so warm, it was quite impossible to prevent) would have been seriously detrimental to the rich dresses of the guests, who, on account of the crowded state of the saloon, could not all be expected to keep from out its centre; that is to say, from under the chandelier.
Page 27
A second turn brought us into a square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life.
Page 44
" Mr.
Page 61
period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius.
Page 70
" {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.
Page 93
Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.
Page 102
Take her up tenderly; Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently,--kindly,-- Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.
Page 116
" 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! Published 1845.
Page 131
The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:--ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness--the nausea-- The pitiless pain-- Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain-- With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.
Page 139
Steals drowsily and musically Into the univeral valley.
Page 153
I.
Page 154
Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness!--what ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so deeply? Cas.
Page 158
But I might have sworn it.
Page 169
Pol.
Page 187
* I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies; --they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common centre, into innumerable radii.
Page 193
Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep-- But the strains still arise Which _thy_ vigilance keep-- The sound of the rain Which leaps down to the flower, And dances again In the rhythm of the shower-- †The murmur that springs From the growing of grass * The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.
Page 206
all beside Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and alone? Falling--her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal of a throne-- And who her sovereign? Timour--he Whom the astonished people saw Striding o'er empires haughtily A diadem'd outlaw-- O! human love! thou spirit given, On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! Which fall'st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc wither'd plain, And failing in thy power to bless But leav'st the heart a wilderness! Idea! which bindest life around With music of so strange a sound And beauty of so wild a birth-- Farewell! for I have won the Earth! When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see No cliff beyond him in the sky, His pinions were bent droopingly-- And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
Page 211
TO ---- I HEED not that my earthly lot Hath-little of Earth in it-- That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute:-- I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer-by.