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THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
The good old abbot of Aberbrothock
Had fixed a large bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,
And louder and louder its warning rung.
When the rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell:
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blessed the priest of Aberbrothock.
The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that fine
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around,
And there was pleasure in the sound.
The float of the Inchcape bell was seen,
A darker spot on the ocean green;
When Sir Ralph the pirate walked the deck,
And he quickly perceived the distant speck.
As soon as he knew 'twas the bell and float,
Quoth he, "My men put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
For I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothock.”
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float !
This ill-deed done, he sailed away,
And scoured the seas for many a day;
At last grown rich with plundered store,
He steered his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspread the sky,
He could not see the sun on high;
The wind had blown a gale all day,
At evening it had died away.
On deck the rover takes his stand:
Said he, I wish we saw the land;
For where we are I cannot tell,
0, I should like to hear the Inchcape Bell !
They hear no sound, the swell is strong,
Though the wind has fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock-
Alas! it is on the Inchcape Rock !"
Sir Ralph then wildly tore his hair,
He cursed himself in wild despair;
But the waves rush'd in on every side,
And the vessel sank beneath the tide.-SOUTHEY.-Adap.
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 tintinabulation that so musically swells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, belís, belís-
From the jingling and the tinkling 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 and 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 endeavour
Now-now to soar or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear too fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Still 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 be
Of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells
In the clamour and the clangour the lls !- EDG
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
When gaily smiled the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.
“Where does my faithful Gelert roam ?
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chace!”
Only at the Welsh prinee's board
The faithful Gelert fed ;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentineled his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John:
But now no Gelert could be found,
So all the train rode on.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chace of hart or hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Displeased, Llewellyn homeward hied:
When near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with drops of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood !
Onward in haste
And on went Gelert too;
And still where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-drops sliocked his view !
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child, no voice replied
He searched with terror wild;
Blood! blood he found on every side,
But no-where found his child !
“Curst hound! by thee my child's devoured !"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh-
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry.
No wound had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain ?-
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
And saved his master's heir.
Sadly a costly tomb they raise,
With varied sculpture decked;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought of his home and of those he loved best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hand
For those who will never come home to the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over and the sooner to sleep;
And good bye to the bar and its moaning:-KI
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd 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 yisitor," I muttered, tapping at my chamber-door,
Only this, and nothing more.”
Then the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain,
Thrill'd me-fill'd 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 ať my chamber-door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I open'd wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
,” 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 stepp'd a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he,—not a moment stopp'd or stay'd he, But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-doorPerch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door
Perch'd, 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 sbaven, 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." 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 Follow'd fast, and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of“ Never,-nevermore.”—EDGAR POE.