the Pantheon in Oxford Street, to have sat
itself down among the ruins; tinkle from
St. Hildeburga's, the sly little Romish chapel;
—call your flocks together, Zoar, and Enon,
and Ebenezer, and Rabshekah;—Howlers,
Jumpers, Moravians, Johanna Southcotonians,
and New-Jerusalemites. Ring out, ye bells—
for this is Sunday morning.

And, ring out, oh bells, a peal of love, and
kindness, and brotherhood. Ring Tolerance
into preachers' mouths and men's hearts, that
while they pray they may forbear to thank
Heaven that they are not as other men, or
even as " this Publican " who is their
neighbour!

SPEED THE PLOUGH.

JOHN WILDE of Rodenkirchen was standing on a hill
Of the far-off Isle of Rugen, on a morning bright and
still;
And, as he looked about him, he saw a little shoe
Of glass most strangely fashioned, that glitter'd like
May dew.

No foot of mortal creature such a little thing could
wear;
John saw it was a fairy's shoe, and took it up with
care.
For he knew that the dwarfish owner, who lived in
the cave below,
Until he regained his slipper, on one bare foot
must go.

John kept his treasure safely; and, in the dark
midnight,
He went up to the hill-top, alone, without a light.
To the ground he put his mouth, and he gave a loud
halloo:
" John Wilde of Rodenkirchen has found a tiny shoe."

Straightway he heard a murmur far down within the
hill,
Like the swarming of a flight of bees and the clacking
of a mill;
Straightway he heard a pattering of little feet hard by:
But John was very cautious, and homeward did he hie.

Next morning came the fairy, like a merchant rich
and gay:
"Have you got a little crystal shoe you could sell to
me today?"—
Quoth John, " I have a slipper, of glass so fine and
small,
That only one of fairy size could put it on at all."

Said the merchant, " I will give you a thousand
dollars new,
From the mint all freshly shining, for this wonderful
glass shoe."
But John was avaricious—a grasping hand had he:
He laughed out in the merchant's face with loud and
scornful glee;
And vowed by all things holy, no less sum would he
take,
Than a ducat for each furrow that ever his plough
should make.

The merchant writhed and twisted, but saw that he
must yield:
So he swore that in each furrow John made within
his field,
Yea, of what length soever his life might chance to be,
A heavy golden ducat he should not fail to see.

John knew right well that fairies to their oaths are
always true:
So away the elf has taken the little crystal shoe.
And away John Wilde has hurried into his field to
plough:
"Without," thought he,"a single seed, I shall soon
have crops enow."
Anon he drove a furrow—a furrow broad and deep;
And at once a golden ducat into his hands did leap.

He jumps about and dances, to be sure 'tis not a
dream:
Then, shouting like a madman, again drives on his
team.
Oh, now 'twould seem a devil has entered into John!
From furrow unto furrow he goads his horses on:

From furrow unto furrow he urges them amain;
And still the golden ducats, spring up like golden grain.
Faster and ever faster, he tears across the land;
And fast the yellow ducats come glittering to his hand.

The sun rides up the heavens; the noon is fierce
and dry
Yet still John drives his horses, beneath the bright
bare sky.
The sun rides down the heavens; and, hastening to
his bed,
Shuts out the eastern moonlight with cloudy curtains
red:
Yet, till the valley darkness, he ploughs the dusky
loam,
John does not stop his labour, nor turn his face
towards home.

The thirst for gold has seized him; each day is now
the same:
His blood is all on fire, his heart is like a flame.
For ever, ever ploughing, ever running to and fro,
Driving random furrows, with ne'er a seed to sow.

Still ploughing, ever ploughing, through all seasons
of the year!
In the seed-time, in the harvest, in the winter bleak
and bare.
He scarcely thinks of resting;—in the early morning's
cold,
While the night yet fills the valleys, and the mists
are on the wold,

His wife beholds him rising out of his weary bed,
With eyes like staring marsh-lights, in the hollows
of his head.
When the night is at its noon, and the stars have
mounted high,
He reels home with his horses, like one who straight
must die.

Poor wretch! his work's not ended!—he has a feeble
light,
And o'er his chest he hovers, in the shadow of the
night:
Over his chests he hovers, to count his lovely gold;
Counting, counting, counting, till the sum is fuliy
told.
He crawls to bed, and slumbers, yet still at work he
seems—
Still ploughing, ever ploughing, through dark and
tangled dreams!