The bell now ceased as bell to ring,
Roused by the mother's twaddle;
But soon ensued a dreadful thing!—
The bell begins to waddle.
It waddles fast, though strange it seem;
The child, with trembling wonder.
Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;
The bell would draw him under.
He finds the proper time at last,
And straightway nimbly rushes
To church, to chapel, hastening fast
Through pastures, plains, and bushes.
Each Sunday and each feast as well,
His late disaster heeds he;
The moment that he hears the bell,
No other summons needs he.
Poets' art is ever able
To endow with truth mere fable.
THE TRAVELLER AND THE FARM MAIDEN.
HE.
Canst thou give, O fair and matchless maiden,
'Neath the shadow of the lindens yonder,—
Where I'd fain one moment cease to wander,—
Food and drink to one so heavy laden?
