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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Yon, in the depths of the evening's track, Like a herd of blind bullocks that seek their fellows, Wild, as in terror, the tempest bellows. And suddenly, there, o'er the gables black That the church, in the twilight, around it raises All scored with lightnings the steeple blazes. See the old bell-ringer, frenzied with fear. Mouth gaping, yet speechless, draw hastening near. And the knell of alarm that with strokes of lead He rings, heaves forth in a tempest of dread The frantic despair that throbs in his head. With the cross at the height Of its summit brandished, the lofty steeple Spreads the crimson mane Of the fire o'er the plain Toward the dream-like horizons that bound the night; The city nocturnal is filled with light; The face of the swift-gathered crowds doth people With fears and with clamours both street and lane; On walls turned suddenly dazzling bright The dusky panes drink the crimson flood Like draughts of blood. Yet, knell upon knell, the old ringer doth cast His frenzy and fear o'er the country vast. The steeple, it seems to be growing higher Against the horizon that shifts and quivers, And to be flying in gleams of fire Far o'er the lakes and the swampy rivers. Its slates, like wings Of sparks and spangles, afar it flings. They fly toward the forests across the night: And in their passage the fires exhume The hovels and huts from their folds of gloom, Setting them suddenly all alight. In the crashing fall of the steeple's crown The cross to the brazier's depth drops down, Where, twisted and torn in the fiery fray, Its Christian arms are crushed like prey. With might and main The bell-ringer sounds his knell abroad. As though the flames would burn his God. The fire Funnel-like hollows its way yet higher, 'Twixt walls of stone, up the steeple's height; Gaining the archway and lofty stage Where, swinging in light, the bell bounds with rage. The daws and the owls, with wild, long cry Pass screeching by; On the fast-closed casements their heads they smite, Burn in the smoke-drifts their pinions light, Then, broken with terror and bruised with flight. Suddenly, 'mid the surging crowd. Fall dead outright. The old man sees toward his brandished bells The climbing fire With hands of boiling gold stretch nigher. The steeple Looks like a thicket of crimson bushes, With here a branch of flame that rushes Darting the belfry boards between; Convulsed and savage flames, they cling, With curves that plant-like curl and lean. Round every joist, round every pulley, And monumental beams, whence ring The bells, that voice forth frenzied folly. His fear and anguish spent, the ringer Sounds his own knell On his ruined bell. A final crash, All dust and plaster in one grey flash, Cleaves the whole steeple's height in pieces; And like some great cry slain, it ceases All on a sudden, the knell's dull rage. The ancient tower Seems sudden to lean and darkly lower; While with heavy thuds, as from stage to stage They headlong bound. The bells are heard Plunging and crashing towards the ground. But yet the old ringer has never stirred. And, scooping the moist earth out, the bell Was thus his coffin, and grave as well.
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