Thus reading on--the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,-- If talking Trees and Birds reveal’d to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland’s fly-waggons, And magic-fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons.-- Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons; When, as it fell upon a summer’s day, As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and-parlour door, A hideous roar Proclaim’d a drove of beasts was coming by the way. Long-horn’d, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels Or Durham feed; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils From neither side of Tweed, Or Firth of Forth; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,-- With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,-- When,--whether from a fly’s malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank; Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment,-- However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kick’d out a passage thro’ the beastly rabble; And after a pas seul,--or, if you will, a Hornpipe before the Basket-maker’s villa, Leapt o’er the tiny pale,-- Back’d his beef-steaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail Right o’er the page, Wherein the sage Just then was spelling some romantic fable. The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not peruse,--who could?--two tales at once; And being huff’d At what he knew was none of Riquet’s Tuft, Bang’d-to the door, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:-- The monster gave a roar, And bolting off with speed, increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more, And, like Macheath, “took to the road” again! Just then, by fortune’s whimsical decree, The ancient woman stooping with her crupper Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper; Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o’er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach;--what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale; Meanwhile she never heard her old man’s wail, Nor turn’d, till home had turn’d a corner, quite Gone out of sight!