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.

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

O! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

In veils, and drowned in tears,

Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,

Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly

Mere puppets they, who come and go

At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings

Invisible Woe!

Out-out are the lights-out all!

And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy " Man,"

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.