TO MY MOTHER.* BECAUSE I feel that in the heavens above The angels, whispering to one another, Can find among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of "mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— You, who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you My mother-my own mother, who died early— Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that affinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. * Addressed to a lady who well deserved that name from Poe-MARIA CLEMM, his mother-in-law. See Willis's Hurry Graphs.-ED. What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars, that oversprinkle In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 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 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 Of the 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! 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, 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! On the bosom of the palpitating air! 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 clamour and the clangour 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 |