396

OUTSIDE THE ALE-HOUSE.

But drink has stolen your strength, John,
And paled your cheek to white;
Has tottering made your once firm tread,
And bowed your manly height.

You'll not go in to-night!

You'll not go in! Think on the day
That made me, John, your wife;
What pleasant talk we that day had
Of all our future life.

Of how your steady earnings, John,
No wasting should consume,
But weekly some new comfort bring,
To deck our happy room.—

Then don't go in to-night!

To see us, John, as then we dressed,
So tidy, clean, and neat,
Brought out all eyes to follow us

As we went down the street.

Ah, little thought our neighbors then,
And we as little thought,

That ever, John, to rags like these
By drink we should be brought.
You won't go in to-night!

And will you go? If not for me,
Yet for your baby stay;---
You know, John, not a taste of food

Has passed my lips to-day;

And tell your father, little one,

"Tis mine your life hangs on-
You will not spend the shilling, John,
You'll give it him? Come, John.
Come home with us to-night!

Come home with us to-night!

THE BELLS.

HEA

THE BELLS.

EAR the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinuabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

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
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,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

397

398

THE BELLS.

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, higher,
With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor,
Now-now to sit, or never,

By the side of the paled-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 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 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!

THE BELLS.

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 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.

399

400

THE WHISTLER.

THE WHISTLER.

"YOU have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood,

While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline

"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood; I wish that Danish boy's whistle was mine."

"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said,
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face.
"I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid
Would fly to my side, and would there take her place."

"Is that all that you wish for? That may be yours
Without any magic," the fair maiden cried:
"A favor so light one's good nature secures;'
And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth, "and the charm Would work so that not even modesty's check

Would be able to keep from my neck your fine arm."

She smiled, as she laid her fair arm 'round his neck.

"Yet once more would I blow, and the magic divine,
Would bring us a third time an exquisite bliss-
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine,
And your lips stealing past would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee

"What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make; For only consider how silly 'twould be,

To sit there and whistle for what you might take."