Эдгар По – Ворон (страница 60)

        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!

III

        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         In the bosom of the palpitating air!                 Yet the ear, it fully knows,                         By the twanging                         And the clanging,                 How the danger ebbs and flows: —         Yes, 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!

IV

        Hear the folling 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 meaning 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,