The Years rolled on, and as they flew, More famed the Herr Professor grew, His "_Locus_ of the Pineal Gland" (A Masterpiece he long had planned) Had reached the End of Book Eleven, And he was nearing Forty-Seven. Admirers had not long to wait; The last Book came at Forty-Eight, And should have been the Heart and Soul-- The Crown and Summit--of the whole. But now the oddest Thing ensued; 'Twas so insufferably crude, So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain The Writer's Mind was on the wane. Nothing could possibly be said; E'en Friendship's self must hang the head, While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil, Denounced it openly as "Drivel." Never was such Collapse. In brief, The poor Professor died of Grief. With fitting mortuary Rhyme They buried him at _Dumpelsheim_, And as they sorrowing set about A "Short Memoir," the Truth came out. He had been older than he knew. The Parish Clerk had put a "2" In place of "Nought," and made his Date Of Birth a Brace of Years too late. When he had written Book the Last, His true Climacteric had past! MORAL.--To estimate your Worth, Be certain as to date of Birth. TALES IN RHYME. THE VIRGIN WITH THE BELLS. Much strange is true. And yet so much Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays He blurs them both beneath his touch:-- In this our tale his part he plays. At Florence, so the legend tells, There stood a church that men would praise (Even where Art the most excels) For works of price; but chief for one They called the "Virgin with the Bells." Gracious she was, and featly done, With crown of gold about the hair, And robe of blue with stars thereon, And sceptre in her hand did bear; And o'er her, in an almond tree, Three little golden bells there were, Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity. None knew from whence she came of old, Nor whose the sculptor's name should be Of great or small. But this they told:-- That once from out the blaze of square, And bickering folk that bought and sold, More moved no doubt of heat than prayer, Came to the church an Umbrian, Lord of much gold and champaign fair, But, for all this, a hard, haught man. To whom the priests, in humbleness, At once to beg for alms began, Praying him grant of his excess Such as for poor men's bread might pay, Or give their saint a gala-dress. Thereat with scorn he answered--"Nay, Most Reverend! Far too well ye know, By guile and wile, the fox's way "To swell the Church's overflow. But ere from me the least carline Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow; "Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen Shall ring her bells ... but not of craft. By Bacchus! ye are none too lean