"And he by whose counsels thus wisely ye're taught, Is he who with children loves ever to sport. The trusty and faithful old Eckart. Ye have heard of the wonder for many a day, But ne'er had a proof of the marvellous lay,-- Your hands hold a proof most convincing." They arrive at their home, and their pitchers they place By the side of their parents, with fear on their face, Awaiting a beating and scolding. But see what they're tasting: the choicest of beer! Though three times and four times they quaff the good cheer The pitchers remain still unemptied. The marvel it lasts till the dawning of day; All people who hear of it doubtless will say: "What happen'd at length to the pitchers?" In secret the children they smile, as they wait; At last, though, they stammer, and stutter, and prate, And straightway the pitchers were empty. And if, children, with kindness address'd ye may be, Whether father, or master, or alderman he, Obey him, and follow his bidding! And if 'tis unpleasant to bridle the tongue, Yet talking is bad, silence good for the young-- And then will the beer fill your pitchers! 1813. ----- THE DANCE OF DEATH. THE warder looks down at the mid hour of night, On the tombs that lie scatter'd below: The moon fills the place with her silvery light, And the churchyard like day seems to glow. When see! first one grave, then another opes wide, And women and men stepping forth are descried, In cerements snow-white and trailing. In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch, And whirl round in dances so gay; The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich, But the cerements stand in their way; And as modesty cannot avail them aught here, They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appear Scatter'd over the tombs in confusion. Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh, As the troop with strange gestures advance, And a rattle and clatter anon rises high, As of one beating time to the dance. The sight to the warder seems wondrously queer, When the villainous Tempter speaks thus in his ear: "Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!" Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fled Behind the church-door with all speed; The moon still continues her clear light to shed On the dance that they fearfully lead. But the dancers at length disappear one by one, And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don, And under the turf all is quiet. But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still, And gropes at the graves in despair; Yet 'tis by no comrade he's treated so ill The shroud he soon scents in the air. So he rattles the door--for the warder 'tis well That 'tis bless'd, and so able the foe to repel, All cover'd with crosses in metal. The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow, There remains for reflection no time; On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,