O my pleasant garden-plot!- And an old and mossy Apple-tree, With a woodbine wreathed to hide it. There was a bower in my garden-plot, And a wild Hop clamber'd o'er it. Oft-times I sat within my bower, I read of Gardens in old times, I raised up visions in my brain, And all among my flowers I walk'd, HOWITT. THE TRUE STORY OF WEB-SPINNER. WEB-SPINNER was a miser old, Who came of low degree; His body was large, his legs were thin, And his visage had the evil look To all the country he was known, His house was seven stories high, Up in his garret dark he lived, Most people thought he lived alone; That dismal cries from out his house And that none living left his gate, For he seized the very beggar old, And though he pray'd for mercy, And pick'd him bone from bone. Thus people said, and all believed As it was told to me, in truth, There was an ancient widow- But she was poor, and wander'd out So she knock'd at old Web-Spinner's door, "Walk in, walk in, mother!" said he, But ere the midnight clock had toll'd, He had eaten the flesh from off her bones, Now after this fell deed was done, The burly Baron of Bluebottle The sport was dull, the day was hot, Says he, "I'll ask a lodging At the first house I come to;" With that the gate of Web-Spinner Loud was the knock the Baron gave- I'm wearied with a long day's chase- "You may need them all," said Web-Spinner, "It runneth in my mind." "A Baron am I," says Bluebottle; "From a foreign land I come.' "I thought as much," said Web-Spinner, "Fools never stay at home!" Says the Baron, "Churl, what meaneth this? I defy ye, villain base!" And he wish'd the while in his inmost heart Web-Spinner ran and lock'd the door, The Baron was a man of might, Then out he took a little cord, And with many a crafty, cruel knot And bound him down unto the floor, "There's heavy work in store for you; Then up and down his house he went, With a dull heavy countenance, At length he seized on Bluebottle, And with many and many a desperate tug, And step by step, and step by step, Now all this while, a Magistrate, So in he burst, through bolts and bars, But the wicked churl, who all his life Pass'd through a trap-door in the wall, But where he went no man could tell; He died a miserable death, But his body ne'er was found. They pull'd his house down stick and stone,"For a caitiff vile as he," Said they," within our quiet town Shall not a dweller be!" HOWITT. |