Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night 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— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells- What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! They can only shriek, shriek, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, And a resolute endeavour Now, now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. 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! By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, And the people-ah, the people- And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, On the human heart a stone- And their king it is who tolls; With the pæan of the bells- To the pean of the bells- To the rolling of the bells- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. EDGAR A. POE. WANTON droll, whose harmless play Beguiles the rustic's closing day, When drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting till his supper cool; THE KITTEN. Or, with unfettered fancy, fly And maid, whose cheek outblooms the The widowed dame, or lonely maid, rose, As bright the blazing fagot glows- Backward coiled, and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye; Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring Upon the futile, faithless thing. Now wheeling round, with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, As oft beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide; Till, from thy centre starting fair, Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in air, And oft, beneath some urchin's hand, With modest pride, thou tak'st thy stand, While many a stroke of fondness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy pur, As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose; While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. But not alone by cottage-fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire : The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Who in the still, but cheerless shade Whence hast thou, then, thou witless Puss, Ah! many a lightly sportive child, Nor, when thy span of life is past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast; But, gently borne on good man's spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid, And children show, with glistening eyes, The place where poor old Pussy lies. JOANNA BAILLIE 128 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. -ever I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and| And one eye's black intelligence,he; that glance askance ! I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all O'er its white edge at me, his own master, three. 66 Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon [on. "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"-for one heard the quick wheese Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker So we were left galloping, Joris and I, the bit, drew near Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky: The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our foot broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mechlin church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" And his low head and crest, just one sharp Called my Roland his pet name, my horse ear bent back without peer; For my voice, and the other pricked out on Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any his track; noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped | And no voice but was praising this Roland and stood ! of mine, [measure of wine, As I poured down his throat our last And all I remember is friends flocking Which (the burgesses voted by common round As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on Was no more than his due who brought the ground; good news from Ghent. R. BROWNING. consent) THE SAILOR BOY'S GRAVE. WHEN I was here, three years ago, This grave was not yet made; I think his mother loved him best And while she worked for all the rest, He was a boy of lively parts, And full of frolic glee; And when I'm in the green earth's breast, Because he's stronger than the rest, That God who stills the roaring wind, And oh dear mother, when you cry, That still by Him the wail is heard Wild storms had met that vessel's track, Loud winds had roared around, yet Jack But now He called, who was his stay The little sailor died! Long, long, beside the cottage hearth They missed him from his place; His loud, light laugh, his voice of mirth, They played no cricket on the green, No game of bat and ball; For he was gone who once had been The spirit of them all. But round his grave each Sabbath day, (Thinking how kind he was-how gay) His once-loved playmates stand. O little children of a race .To whom short time is given, So part on earth that, face to face, HON. MRS. NORTON. 9 |