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The neighbours seek the well—their pitchers fill,
They wash their flax—and fear pursues them never;
They know the bell's mysterious tongue is still.
And that it rests beneath the wave for ever.7.
Forget not now, my children all,
The silver bell:
For here I end the song I sing,
The tale I tell.
To keep ye listening longer, were
Nor kind, nor wise,
For slumbers bend your weary head,
And dim your eyes.
Yet ere you leave—one passing word,
Our song may suit:
O! trifle not a soul away
Just for a brute.
Bear sorrow's sting with fortitude,
Whate'er befall;
And, O be gentle, kind, and good
To all—to all.
