4. 'Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays J. G. PERCIVAL 180. THE BELLS. TEAR the sledges with the bells— 1. HEAR Silver bells What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In a sort of Runic2 rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 2. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! How they ring out their delight! 'See Biographical Sketch, p. 238.-2 Runic (ro' nik), an epithet applied to the language and letters of the ancient Goths.-'Tin tin nab ulà' tion, the sounding or ringing of little bells. And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats Oh, from out the sounding cells, How it dwells On the Future! how it tells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 8. 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, And a resolute endeavor, What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the car 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, bells, bells, bells, In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 4. Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody' compels! How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats 'Môn'ody, a species of poem of a mournful character, in which a single mourner is supposed to bewail himself.2 Ghoul (gỗl), an imaginary evil being among Eastern nations, which was supposed to prey on human bodies.- Pa'an, among the ancients, a song of rejoicing in honor of Apollo; hence, a song of triumph or loud joy. And his merry bosom swells Keeping time, time, time, To the throbbing of the bells- To the sobbing of the bells; As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells- To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. EDGAR A. Por. EDGAR A. POE, born in Baltimore in January, 1811, was left an orphan by the death of his parents at Richmond, in 1815. He was adopted by JOHN ALLEN, 2 wealthy merchant of Virginia, who in the following year took him to England, and placed him at a school near London, from which, in 1822, he was removed to the University of Virginia, where he graduated with distinction in 1826. While at the Military Academy at West Point, in 1830, he published his first work, a small volume of poems. He secured prizes for a poem and a tale at Baltimore, in 1833; in 1835 he was employed to assist in editing "The Southern Literary Gazette," at Richmond; in 1838 he removed to Philadelphia, where he was connected as editor with Burton's Magazine one year, and with Graham's a year and a half; and subsequently, while in that city, published several volumes of tales, besides many of his finest criticisms, tales, and poems, in periodicals. He went to New York in 1844, where he wrote several months for the "Evening Mirror" In 1845 appeared his very popular poem of "The Raven," and the same year he aided in establishing the "Broadway Journal," of which he was afterward the sole editor. His wife, to whom he had been married about twelve years, died in the spring of 1849. In the summer of that year he returned to Virginia, where it was supposed he had mastered his previous habits of dissipation; but he died from his excesses, at Baltimore, on the seventh of October, at the age of thirty-eight years. In poetry, as in prose, he was eminently successful in the metaphysical treatment of the passions. He had a great deal of imag ination and fancy, and his mind was highly analytical. His poems are constructed with wonderful ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. 181. APOSTROPHE TO THE SUN. AUGUST and sovereign sun! Presence of grandeur! Image of high command! thy rising is a sacrament of strength; nd in our souls' communion with thy rays, the eternal covenants of Hope are renewed, and our being's high sympathy with Truth ard Virtue is again established. Power is born within thy palaces of Light, and influences of Pleasure ride on thy rushing beams. Stern orb of Destiny! what issues attend upon thy coming! Thy motions are our Fate, and thy progress up yonder blue arch of heaven shall be the Anguish or the Joy of Nations. 2. Fierce firstling of Omnipotence! in whose form Infinity grew palpable in splendors, when earliest its excess of energy overflowed into creation. Almost titles of divinity are thine. Thy changes are earth's ep'ochs: our passions and our actions wait on thee: thou goest up in glory, leading the hosts of Being. Author of order! token of Him that, made the universe! to thee it is given daily to renew the wonders of the primal miracle, and call the earth into beauty, from the deep of Night and Nothingness! Nay, even beyond the marvel of that type, thou makest each morning as many worlds as there are minds within it, for that dawning which seemed as general as the heavens is as particular as each human heart. 3. The mingled music of thy seven-toned lyre rolls over the earth; childhood's gentle spirit, light-slumbering on its viöletbed of visions, catches the finest sound of the rich symphony-the joy-note of the strain-and, trembling into fine accord with it, wakes to its fairer, falser dream of real life: the strong, full tone of Duty sounds, swells, and echoes through the soul of marhood: the laxer ear of age faintly hears the deep, harsh note of Custom, heavily vibrating with weight of memories. From thy golden fountains wells forth that perennial stream whence all dritk Life and Consciousness: to different lips, how various is the taste!—to some, as sweet as praise; to some, more bitter than the draughts of Death. 4. Proud, melancholy orb! lone in thy lordliness! thou dwellest in thy solitudes of splendor, and pourest thy bounty ceaselessly on all things, and meetest with no return. Sublime in thine unsocial greatness-beyond the sympathies of those on |