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 crispéd 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 star-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 mistrustHer 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 the 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 crispéd 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."

LENORE.

AH, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever! Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian

river.

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or never

more !

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read-the funeral song be sung!

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so

young

A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,

And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her-that she died!

How shall the ritual, then, be read the requiem how be

sung

By you-by yours, the evil eye,-by yours, the slanderous

tongue

That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go

up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride

For her, the fair and débonnaire, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes-
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her

eyes.