Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

We bow as in the dust, with all our pride
Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.
God give us grace to live as Bradley died !

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

(6 1809 – d 1849).

ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love –

I and my Annabel Lee –
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me –
Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know

In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we –

Of many far wiser than we –
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling – my darling – my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea –
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

THE BELLS.

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.

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 !

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 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 Hows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling ,

How the danger sioks 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!

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 — ab! 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, beils —
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

« ForrigeFortsæt »