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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.

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.

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.