228 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen; And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west; Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dyke of sand, "I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!" Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. H. W. Longfellow. THE BELLS. 229 THE BELLS. HEAR the sledges with the bells- What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinabulation that so musically swells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 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 swells; How it dwells On the Future! how it tells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum 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, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, And a resolute endeavour 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 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 clamour and the clangour of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! 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- And who tolling, tolling, tolling, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone- And their king it is who tolls; A pæan from the bells! 232 THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 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; 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. E. A. Poe. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST (1571.) THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he, Men say it was a stolen tyde— The Lord that sent it, He knows all; The message that the bells let fall: By millions crouched on the old sea wall. |