Hearing Bells.

And as she sped far out of sight, his heart was like to break;
His: friend had gone that shared his crust, far sweeter for her sake.
Humble his lot the Merchant knew, but knew not that the Cook
With blows and cuffs the boy assail’d, and surly word and look,
Until his life a burden seemed, too grievous to be borne,

Though Alice oft would pity him, so lowly and forlorn.

Now musing long, the thought arose his plight could scarce be worse,.
And forth he rush’d into the fields, regardless of his course.

The cutting winds blew bleak and cold upon his shiv’ring breast,
His naked feet were pierced with thorns, on every side distress ;
He sank, o’erpowered with grief and pain, upon a wayside stone,
Bethinking there to end his days, with none to make him moan:
And calling upon Gop for aid in this last hour of need—

On Gop, who never yet refused to hear the wretched plead.

And now the bells sound tench cel clear, as thus he lay forlorn,
Seeming to say, “O Whittington, thou foolish boy, return!

Lord Mayor of London thou shalt be, Dick Whittington, if thou
Wilt turn again, and meet thy lot with bold and manly brow.’*

 

* The six bells of Bow Church rang, and seemed to say to him:
“Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London;
Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.”

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