At midnight, in his guarded tent,
          The Turk was dreaming of the hour
            When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
          Should tremble at his power;
          In dreams, through camp and court he bore.
            The trophies of a conqueror;
          In dreams his song of triumph heard;
          Then wore his monarch's signet ring;
            Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king:
          As wild his thoughts and gay of wing
          As Eden's garden bird.

          At midnight, in the forest shades,
          Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
            True as the steel of their tried blades,
          Heroes in heart and hand.
          There had the Persian's thousands stood,
            There had the glad earth drunk their blood
          On old Plataea's day;
          And now there breathed that haunted air
            The sons of sires who conquered there,
          With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
          As quick, as far as they.

          An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;
          That bright dream was his last;
            He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,
          "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
          He woke—to die midst flame and smoke,
            And shout and groan and sabre-stroke,
          And death-shots falling thick and fast
          As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
            And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
          Bozzaris cheer his band:
          Strike—till the last armed foe expires!
            Strike—for your altars and your fires!
          Strike—for the green graves of your sires,
          God, and your native land!"

          They fought like brave men, long and well;
          They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
            They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
          Bleeding at every vein.
          His few surviving comrades saw
            His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
          And the red field was won;
          Then saw in death his eyelids close
            Calmly, as to a night's repose,
          Like flowers at set of sun.

          Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
          Come to the mother's when she feels,
            For the first time, her first-horn's breath;
          Come when the blessed seals
          That close the pestilence are broke,
            And crowded cities wail its stroke;
          Come in consumption's ghastly form,
          The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
            Come when the heart beats high and warm
          With banquet-song and dance and wine;
          And thou art terrible—the tear,
            The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
          And all we know or dream or fear
          Of agony, are thine.

          But to the hero, when his sword
          Has won the battle for the free,
            Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
          And in its hollow tones are heard
          The thanks of millions yet to be.
            Come when his task of fame is wrought,
          Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought,
          Come in her crowning hour, and then
            Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
          To him is welcome as the sight
          Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
            Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
          Of brother in a foreign land;
          Thy summons welcome as the cry
            That told the Indian isles were nigh
          To the world-seeking Genoese,
          When the land-wind, from woods of palm
            And orange-groves and fields of balm,
          Blew oer the Haytian seas.

          Bozzaris, with the storied brave
          Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
            Rest thee—there is no prouder gave.
          Even in her own proud clime.
          She wore no funeral-weeds for thee,
            Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
          Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
          In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
            The heartless luxury of the tomb.
          But she remembers thee as one
          Long loved and for a season gone;
            For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
          Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
          For thee she rings the birthday bells;
            Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
          For throe her evening prayer is said
          At palace-couch and cottage-bed;
            Her soldier, closing with the foe,
          Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
          His plighted maiden, when she fears
            For him, the joy of her young years,
          Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears;
          And she, the mother of thy boys,
            Though in her eye and faded cheek
          Is read the grief she will not speak,
          The memory of her buried joys,
            And even she who gave thee birth,
          Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
          Talk of thy doom without a sigh,
            For thou art Freedom's now and Fame's,
          One of the few, the immortal names,
          That were not born to die.

                    Green be the turf above thee,
                     Friend of my better days!
                    None knew thee but to love thee,
                     Nor named thee but to praise.

                    Tears fell, when thou went dying,
                     From eyes unused to weep,
                    And long where thou art lying,
                     Will tears the cold turf steep.

                    When hearts, whose truth was proven,
                     Like throe, are laid in earth,
                    There should a wreath be woven
                     To tell the world their worth;

                    And I, who woke each morrow
                     To clasp thy hand in mine,
                    Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
                     Whose weal and woe were thine;

                    It should be mine to braid it
                     Around thy faded brow,
                    But I've in vain essayed it,
                     And I feel I cannot now.

                    While memory bids me weep thee,
                     Nor thoughts nor words are free,
                    The grief is fixed too deeply
                     That mourns a man like thee.

          Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
          Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
          A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
          Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
               Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!
          There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

          An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
          O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
          The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,—
          Give me them,—and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
               Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!
          There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

          How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
          And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile!
          Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
          But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!
               Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!
          There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

          To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
          The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
          No more from that, cottage again will I roam;
          Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
               Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!
          There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

               Helen, thy beauty is to me
                Like those Nicean barks of yore,
               That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
                The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
                To his own native shore.

               On desperate seas long wont to roam,
                Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
               Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
                To the glory that was Greece,
                And the grandeur that was Rome.

               Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
                How statue-like I see thee stand,
               The agate lamp within thy hand!
                Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
                Are Holy-Land!

               In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
                 "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
               None sing so wildly well
               As the angel Israel,
               And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
               Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
                 Of his voice, all mute.

               Tottering above
                 In her highest noon,
                 The enamoured moon
               Blushes with love,
                 While, to listen, the red levin
                (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
                 Which were seven,)
                 Pauses in Heaven.

               And they say (the starry choir
                 And the other listening things)
               That Israeli's fire
               Is owing to that lyre
                 By which he sits and sings—
               The trembling living wire
                 Of those unusual strings.

               But the skies that angel trod,
               Where deep thoughts are a duty—
               Where Love's a grown-up God—
                 Where the Houri glances are
               Imbued with all the beauty
                 Which we worship in a star.

               Therefore, thou art not wrong,
                 Israfeli, who despisest
               An unimpassioned song;
               To thee the laurels belong,
                 Best bard, because the wisest!
               Merrily live, and long!

               The ecstasies above
                 With thy burning measures suit—
               Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
                 With the fervour of thy lute—
                 Well may the stars be mute!

               Yes, Heaven is thin-e; but this
                 Is a world of sweets and sours;
                 Our flowers are merely—flowers,
               And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
                 Is the sunshine of ours.

               If I could dwell
               Where Israfel
                 Hath dwelt, and he where I,
               He might not sing so wildly well
                 A mortal melody,
               While a bolder note than this might swell
                 From my lyre within the sky.

     Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
       Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
     And, Guy De Vere, halt thou no tear?—weep now or never more!
       See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
     Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
       An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
     A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

     "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
      "And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died!
     "How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung
       "By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue
     "That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

     Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
       Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
     The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
     Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride
       For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
     The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
       The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
     "Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
       "From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
     "From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
     Heaven."
     Let no bell toll then!—lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
       Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
     And I!—to-night my heart is light!  No dirge will I upraise,
       But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!

          Type of the antique Rome!  Rich reliquary
           Of lofty contemplation left to Time
          By bunted centuries of pomp and power!
           At length—at length—after so many days
          Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
           (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
          I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
           Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
          My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

          Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
           Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
          I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
           O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king
          Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
           O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
          Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

          Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
           Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
          A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
           Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
          Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
           Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
          Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
           Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
          The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

          But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
           These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
          These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
           These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
          These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
           All of the famed, and the colossal left
          By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

          "Not all"—the Echoes answer me—"not all!
           "Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
          "From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
           "As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
          "We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
           "With a despotic sway all giant minds.
          "We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
           "Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
          "Not all the magic of our high renown—
           "Not all the wonder that encircles us—
          "Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
           "Not all the memories that hang upon
          "And cling around about us as a garment,
           "Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

               In the greenest of our valleys
                    By good angels tenanted,
               Once a fair and stately palace—
                    Radiant palace—reared its head.
               In the monarch Thought's dominion—
                    It stood there!
               Never seraph spread a pinion
                    Over fabric half so fair!

               Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
                    On its roof did float and flow,
               (This—all this—was in the olden
                    Time long ago,)
               And every gentle air that dallied;
                    In that sweet day,
               Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
                    A winged odor went away.

               Wanderers in that happy valley,
                    Through two luminous windows, saw
               Spirits moving musically,
                    To a lute's well-tuned law,
               Round about a throne where, sitting,
                    (Porphyrogene!)
               In state his glory well befitting,
                    The ruler of the realm was seen.

               And all with pearl and ruby glowing
                    Was the fair palace door,
               Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
                    And sparkling evermore,
               A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
                    Was but to sing,
               In voices of surpassing beauty,
                    The wit and wisdom of their king.

               But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
                    Assailed the monarch's high estate.
               (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
                    Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
               And round about his home the glory
                    That blushed and bloomed,
               Is but a dim-remembered story
                    Of the old time entombed.

               And travellers, now, within that valley,
                    Through the red-litten windows see
               Vast forms, that move fantastically
                    To a discordant melody,
               While, like a ghastly rapid river,
                    Through the pale door
               A hideous throng rush out forever
                    And laugh—but smile no more.

               Thou wast all that to me, love,
                 For which my soul did pine—
               A green isle in the sea, love,
                 A fountain and a shrine
               All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
                 And all the flowers were mine.

               Ah, dream too bright to last!
                 Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
               But to be overcast!
                 A voice from out the Future cries,
               "On! on!"—but o'er the Past
                 (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
               Mute, motionless, aghast!

               For, alas! alas! with me
                 The light of Life is o'er!
               "No more—no more—no more—"
                 (Such language holds the solemn sea
               To the sands upon the shore)
                 Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
               Or the stricken eagle soar!

               And all my days are trances,
                 And all my nightly dreams
               Are where thy grey eye glances,
                 And where thy footstep gleams—
               In what ethereal dances,
                 By what eternal streams.

                    I dwelt alone
                    In a world of moan,
               And my soul was a stagnant tide,
          Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
          Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

               Ah, less—less bright
               The stars of the night
          Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
               And never a flake
               That the vapor can make
          With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
     Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl—
     Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble
     and careless curl.

               Now Doubt—now Pain
               Come never again,
          For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
               And all day long
               Shines, bright and strong,
          Astarte within the sky,
     While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
     While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

     Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
     Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
     While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
     As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door
     "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
               Only this and nothing more."

     Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
     And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor—
     Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
     From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
     For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
               Nameless here for evermore.

     And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
     Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
     So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

     "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
     Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
               This it is and nothing more."

     Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
     "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
     But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping
     And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
     That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—
               Darkness there and nothing more.

     Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
     fearing,
     Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
     But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
     And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
     This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
               Merely this and nothing more.

     Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
     Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
     "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
     Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
     Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
               'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

     Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter
     In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
     Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
     But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
     Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
               Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

     Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
     By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
     "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art
     sure no craven,
     Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
     Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

     Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
     Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
     For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
     Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
     Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
               With such name as "Nevermore."

     But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
     That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
     Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
     Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
     On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
               Then the bird said "Nevermore."

     Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
     "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
     Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
     Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
     Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore—
               Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

     But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
     Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
     door;
     Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
     Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
     What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
               Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

     Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
     To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
     This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
     On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
     But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
               She shall press, ah, nevermore!

     Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
     Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
     "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath
     sent thee

     Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
     Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

     "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!-
     Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
     Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
     On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
     Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

     "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
     By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
     Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
     It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
     Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

     "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!"  I shrieked,
     upstarting—
     "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
     Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
     Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
     Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
     door!"
               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

     And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
     On the pallid bust of Pallas dust above my chamber door;
     And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
     And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor
     And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
               Shall be lifted—nevermore!

          I saw thee once—once only—years ago
          I must not say how many—but not many.
          It was a July midnight; and from out
          A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
          Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
          There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
          With quietude and sultriness and slumber,
          Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
          Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
          Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
          Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
          That gave out, in return for the love-light,
          Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
          Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
          That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
          By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

          Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
          I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
          Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
          And on throe own, upturn'd—alas, in sorrow!

          Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight—
          Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow),
          That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
          To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
          No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
          Save only thee and me.  (Oh, heaven!—oh, God!
          How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
          Save only thee and me.  I paused—I looked—
          And in an instant all things disappeared.
          (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
          The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
          The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
          The happy flowers and the repining trees,
          Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
          Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
          All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:
          Save only the divine light in throe eyes—
          Save but the soul in throe uplifted eyes.
          I saw but them—they were the world to me.
          I saw but them—saw only them for hours—
          Saw only there until the moon went down.
          What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten

          Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
          How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope!
          How silently serene a sea of pride!
          How daring an ambition! yet how deep—
          How fathomless a capacity for love!

          But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
          Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
          And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
          Didst glide away.  Only thine eyes remained.
          They would not go—they never yet have gone.
          Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
          They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
          They follow me—they lead me through the years—
          They are my ministers—yet I their slave.
          Their office is to illumine and enkindle—
          My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
          And purified in their electric fire,
          And sanctified in their elysian fire.
          They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
          And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to
          In the sad, silent watches of my night;
          While even in the meridian glare of day
          I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
          Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

               It was many and many a year ago,
                 In a kingdom by the sea
               That a maiden there lived whom you may know
                 By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
               And this maiden she lived with no other thought
                 Than to love and be loved by me.

               I was a child and she was a child,
                 In this kingdom by the sea,
               But we loved with a love that was more than love—
                 I and my ANNABEL LEE—
               With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
                 Coveted her and me.

               And this was the reason that, long ago,
                 In this kingdom by the sea,
               A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
                 My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
               So that her highborn kinsmen came
                 And bore her away from me,
               To shut her up in a sepulchre
                 In this kingdom by the sea.

               The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
                 Went envying her and me—
               Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
                 In this kingdom by the sea)
               That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
                 Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

               But our love it was stronger by far than the love
                 Of those who were older than we—
               Of many far wiser than we—
                 And neither the angels in heaven above,
               Nor the demons down under the sea,
                 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
               Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:

               For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
                 Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
               And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
                 Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:
               And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
                 Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride
               In the sepulchre there by the sea—
                 In her tomb by the sounding sea.

               Hear 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 tintinnabulation 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 foretell:
               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!

               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 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 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, belts, 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!
               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 or woman—
          They are neither brute nor human—
                    They are Ghouls:—
               And their king it is who tolls:—
               And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
                    Rolls
               A paean from the bells!
               And his merry bosom swells
                 With the paean of the bells!
               And he dances, and he yells;
               Keeping time, time, time,
               In a sort of Runic rhyme,
               To the paean 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.