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, 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 air, 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 clamor and the clangor 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-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 pean 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, bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. "The Bells."

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

2. Thus saying, from her side the fatal key,
Sad instrument of all our wo, she took;
And, toward the gate rolling her bestial train,
Forthwith the huge portcullis high up-drew,
Which, but herself, not all the Stygian powers
Could once have moved; then in the keyhole turns
The intricate wards, and every bolt and bar
Of massy iron or solid rock with ease
Unfastens. On a sudden open fly,

With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus. She opened; but to shut

Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood,
That with extended wings a bannered host,

Under spread ensigns marching, might pass through
With horse and chariots ranked in loose array;
So wide they stood, and like a furnace-mouth
Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame.
"Discord."

JOHN MILTON.

3. The multitude of Angels, with a shout

Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy-Heaven rung
With jubilee, and loud hosannas filled

The eternal regions. Lowly reverent

Toward either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast

Their crowns, inwove with amaranth and gold-
Immortal amaranth, a flower which once

In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life,

Began to bloom, but, soon for Man's offense,
To Heaven removed where first it grew, there grows
And flowers aloft, shading the Fount of Life,

And where the River of Bliss through midst of Heaven
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream!
With these, that never fade, the Spirits elect

Bind their resplendent locks, inwreathed with beams.
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone,
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.

Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took-
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
Like quivers hung; and with preamble sweet
Of charming symphony they introduce
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high:
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part; such concord is in Heaven.
"Concord."

JOHN MILTON.

4. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began:

When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold and hot and moist and dry

In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony

This universal frame began:

From Harmony to Harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion can not Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion can not Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries "Hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!''

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion

For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher
When to her organ vocal breath was given
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd—
Mistaking Earth for Heaven!

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blest above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

"Song for Saint Cecilia's Day."

JOHN DRYDEN.

5. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild.
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize-

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.