Ворон - Эдгар Аллан По
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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 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 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,
In that muffled monotone,
Fell 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.
Колокола
I
Сани, сани! – Бубенцы!
Бубенцы!
Словно звенья зазвенели! Словно гения гонцы!
Звонки звуков половинки!
Звезды негою полны —
В небесах на паутинке
Тонко чокаются льдинки,
Серебром напоены!
Бьются в тон – тон – тон
Рунам минувших времен,
Потакая перезвону, что несут во все концы
Бубенцы! Бубенцы!
Бубенцы!
Озорные, рассыпные бубенцы!
II
Благостный венчальный звон,
Чинный звон!
Полный золота, чеканный перезвон со всех сторон!
Долго держит воздух вольный
Томный гомон колокольный!
О! Торжественное пенье!
Вот он – Канон!
Лунный голубь в упоеньи
Шлет чете благословенье – наслажденье
Славит он!
В золотых тонах пеона
Келья каждая звенит! И не зная угомона,
С небосклона
Ливнем звона
К нам нисходит гром Канона!
Мука сладостного стона
Сотрясла колокола! —
Вот она, лавина звона:
Звона – звона – звона – звона!
Звон! Звон! Звон!
Звон могучий, звон певучий, чинный звон!
III
Медный колокол гудит,
Леденит! —
И со дна души смятенной обнаженный страх глядит!
Над землею пораженной
В ухо ночи оглушенной
Из гортани колокольной
Рвется вопль безглагольный!
Бьет и бьет!
Призывает к милосердью он бушующий огонь!
Умоляет о пощаде в небо рвущийся огонь!
О, не тронь! – не тронь! – не тронь!
Тщетно! – И в стропилах голых
Тризну правит грозный молох!
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