 | The bells |  |
I.
THE LITTLE WITCHES AT THE CROSSINGS.
These imps of Want! these sprites of Poverty!That flock the crossways of the muddy town
With brooms at ev'ry rain, whence come they, pray?
Spring they from earth, or do they tumble down,
Like animalculæ, in drops of rain?
How phantom-like they move about the street!
Are they dwarf Gnomes fresh from some cavern's brain,
Like those in Arab legends? Can hearts beat
In such odd creatures? Are they more than breath?
81
Are spectral as the Witches in Macbeth!
Drop them a coin, pedestrian, thus may
You win their good will, which were best to own,
Since heaven can tell what elfs these are alone.
| The bells | |