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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 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 airl
Yet the ear, 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 wrangltng,

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 clanging 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

From the rust within their throats

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759

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A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean 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—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

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,'

760

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,
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.

My mother my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

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The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—

Have ceased with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called 'Living'
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—

I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For a man never slept

In a different bed—

And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses—
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies— A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies— With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie— Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast—

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels.
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,

Now, in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)

That you fancy me dead—

That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead:

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