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THE BELLS
Edgar Allen Poe (1809 - 1849)
When I began this weekly poetry project last fall, I said that I intended to avoid the "old standards," not wanting to simply present an anthology of "America's best loved poems." This week, I thought I'd trample all over this good intention of mine. I mean, if I am to feature my favorite poems and poets, then Poe must be included. And it just wouldn't seem right, if I am going to choose one poem of Poe's, not to choose "The Bells." It has been a great favorite of mine since I first read it, probably when I was in middle school. And while it is not Poe's greatest poetic work, it must still be considered an American standard.
Poe began writing this poem in 1848, the year before his death. The story is that he was staying at the home of a friend, Mrs. Marie Louise Shew at 47 Bond Street in New York. He is said to have been mentally and emotionally exhausted at the time, and was annoyed by the sounds of the bells from nearby churches. He had promised to write a poem for immediate publication, but was in no mood to do so.
After tea one day, Mrs. Shew took a piece of paper, wrote "The Bells, by E.A. Poe" at the top and handed it to him. He wrote a few lines, then quit. She is said to have written the words, "the heavy iron bells" on the page, and gave it back to him. He wrote 17 lines and stopped. He called it, "Mrs. Shew's poem." But he revised it numerous times over the next several months, and finally published it with the title Mrs. Shew originally gave it, "The Bells."
Mrs. Shew, by the way, was a friend of Poe's aunt, Mrs. Maria Poe Clemms, whose daughter Poe married when she was 14 years old. Virginia died in 1847 after a sustained illness. Poe was quite ill himself at the time, and was nursed back to health through the combined efforts of Mrs. Shew and Mrs. Clemm.
Late last winter, when I presented G. K. Chesterton's wonderful war poem, "Lepanto," I gave the following recommendation. "Go to a room by yourself and read this poem aloud. In fact, not just aloud, but loudly." "Lepando" is, I said, a poem like Poe's "The Bells," that can only be truly enjoyed by reading that way. So, go into a room by yourself, and read this poem aloud, loudly. It's a wonderful work, and a lot of fun to read. Benet's Readers Encyclopedia of American Literature describes it as "the most sustained exercise in onomatopoeia in poetry."
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The Bells
I
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.
II
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 an 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
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!
IV
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 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 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.
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