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Seized by a mortal illness, Handel expressed a wish that he might die on Good Friday, “in hope of meeting his good God, his sweet Lord and Saviour, on the day of his resurrection.” This consolation, it seems, was not denied him. For on his monument, standing in the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey, is inscribed: “Died on Good Friday, April 14, 1759.”
Another story, which is associated with the woods of Hanover, near Hamburg, was entitled
PETER THE WILD BOY
In the year 1725, a few years after the capture of Marie le Blanc, a celebrated wild girl in France, there was seen in the woods, some twenty-five miles from Hanover, an object in form like a boy, yet running on his hands and feet, and eating grass and moss, like a beast.
The remarkable creature was captured, and was taken to Hanover by the superintendent of the House of Correction at Zell. It proved to be a boy evidently about thirteen years of age, yet possessing the habits and appetites of a mere animal. He was presented to King George I., at a state dinner at Hanover, and, the curiosity of the king being greatly excited, he became his patron.
In about a year after his capture he was taken to England, and exhibited to the court. While in that country he received the name of Peter the Wild Boy, by which ever after he was known.
Marie le Blanc, after proper training, became a lively, brilliant girl, and related to her friends and patrons the history of her early life; but Peter the Wild Boy seems to have been mentally deficient.
Dr. Arbuthnot, at whose house he resided for a time in his youth, spared no pains to teach him to talk; but his efforts met with but little success.
Peter seemed to comprehend the language and signs of beasts and birds far better than those of human beings, and to have more sympathy with the brute creation than with mankind. He, however, at last was taught to articulate the name of his royal patron, his own name, and some other words.
It was a long time before he became accustomed to the habits of civilization. He had evidently been used to sleeping on the boughs of trees, as a security from wild beasts, and when put to bed would tear the clothes, and hopping up take his naps in the corner of the room.
He regarded clothing with aversion, and when fully dressed was as uneasy as a culprit in prison. He was, however, generally docile, and submitted to discipline, and by degrees became more fit for human society.
He was attracted by beauty, and fond of finery, and it is related of him that he attempted to kiss the young and dashing Lady Walpole, in the circle at court. The manner in which the lovely woman received his attentions may be fancied.
Finding that he was incapable of education, his royal patron placed him in charge of a farmer, where he lived many years. Here he was visited by Lord Monboddo, a speculative English writer, who, in a metaphysical work, gives the following interesting account: —
“It was in the beginning of June, 1782, that I saw him in a farmhouse called Broadway, about a mile from Berkhamstead, kept there on a pension of thirty pounds, which the king pays. He is but of low stature, not exceeding five feet three inches, and though he must now be about seventy years of age, he has a fresh, healthy look. He wears his beard; his face is not at all ugly or disagreeable, and he has a look that may be called sensible or sagacious for a savage.
“About twenty years ago he used to elope, and once, as I was told, he wandered as far as Norfolk; but of late he has become quite tame, and either keeps the house or saunters about the farm. He has been, during the last thirteen years, where he lives at present, and before that he was twelve years with another farmer, whom I saw and conversed with.
“This farmer told me he had been put to school somewhere in Hertfordshire, but had only learned to articulate his own name, Peter, and the name of King George, both which I heard him pronounce very distinctly. But the woman of the house where he now is – for the man happened not to be home – told me he understood everything that was said to him concerning the common affairs of life, and I saw that he readily understood several things she said to him while I was present. Among other things she desired him to sing ‘Nancy Dawson,’ which he accordingly did, and another tune that she named. He was never mischievous, but had that gentleness of manners which I hold to be characteristic of our nature, at least till we become carnivorous, and hunters, or warriors. He feeds at present as the farmer and his wife do; but, as I was told by an old woman who remembered to have seen him when he first came to Hertfordshire, which she computed to be about fifty-five years before, he then fed much on leaves, particularly of cabbage, which she saw him eat raw. He was then, as she thought, about fifteen years of age, walked upright, but could climb trees like a squirrel. At present he not only eats flesh, but has acquired a taste for beer, and even for spirits, of which he inclines to drink more than he can get.
“The old farmer with whom he lived before he came to his present situation informed me that Peter had that taste before he came to him. He has also become very fond of fire, but has not acquired a liking for money; for though he takes it he does not keep it, but gives it to his landlord or landlady, which I suppose is a lesson they have taught him. He retains so much of his natural instinct that he has a fore-feeling of bad weather, growling, and howling, and showing great disorder before it comes on.”
Another philosopher, who made him a visit, obtained the following luminous information: —
“Who is your father?”
“King George.”
“What is your name?”
“Pe-ter.”
“What is that?” (pointing to a dog.)
“Bow-wow.”
“What are you?”
“Wild man.”
“Where were you found?”
“Hanover.”
“Who found you?”
“King George.”
About the year 1746 he ran away, and, entering Scotland, was arrested as an English spy. His captors endeavored to force from him some terrible disclosure, but could obtain nothing, not even an answer, and it was something of a puzzle to them to determine exactly what they had captured.
They at last resolved to inflict punishment upon him for his obstinacy, but were deterred by a lady who recognized him and disclosed his history.
In his latter years he made himself useful to the farmer with whom he lived, but he required constant watchfulness, else he would make grave blunders. An amusing anecdote is told of his manner of working when left to himself.
He was required, during the absence of his guardian, to fill a cart with compost, which he did; but, having filled the cart in the usual way, and finding himself out of employment, he directly shovelled the compost out again, and when the farmer returned the cart was empty.
But poor Peter, with all his dulness, possessed some remarkable characteristics. He was very strong of arm, and wonderfully swift of foot, and his senses were acute. His musical gifts were most marvellous. He would reproduce, in his humming way, the notes of a tune that he had heard but once, – a thing that might have baffled an amateur.
He also had a lively sense of the beautiful and the sublime. He would stand at night gazing on the stars as though transfixed by the splendors blazing above. His whole being was thrilled with joy on the approach of spring. He would sing all the day as the atmosphere became warm and balmy, and would often prolong his melodies far into the beautiful nights.
He died aged about seventy years.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BELLS OF THE RHINE
Legends of the Bells of Basel and Speyer. – Story of the Harmony Chime. – The Bell-founder of Breslau
ONE evening, after the story-telling entertainments, Mr. Beal was speaking to the Class of the great bell of Cologne which has been cast from the French cannon captured in the last war.
“It seems a beautiful thing,” he said, “that the guns of war should be made to ring out the notes of peace.”
“There is one subject that we did not treat at our meetings,” said Charlie Leland, – “the bells of the Rhine.”
“True,” said Mr. Beal. “A volume might be written on the subject. Almost every belfry on the Rhine has its legend, and many of them are associated with thrilling events of history. The raftmen, as they drift down the river on the Sabbath, associate almost every bell they hear with a story. The bells of Basle (Basel), Strasburg, Speyer, Heidelberg, Worms, Frankfort, Mayence, Bingen, and Bonn all ring out a meaning to the German student that the ordinary traveller does not comprehend. Bell land is one of mystery.
“For example, the clocks of Basel. The American traveller arrives at Basel, and hurries out of his hotel, and along the beautiful public gardens, to the terrace overlooking the Rhine. He looks down on the picturesque banks of the winding river; then far away his eye seeks the peaks of the Jura.
“The bells strike. The music to his ears has no history.
“The German and French students hear them with different ears. The old struggles of Alsace and Romaine come back to memory. They recall the fact that the city was once saved by a heroic watchman, who confused the enemy by causing the bells to strike the wrong hour. To continue the memory of this event, the great bell of Basel during the Middle Ages was made to strike the hour of one at noonday.
“The bells of Speyer have an interesting legend. Henry IV. was one of the most unfortunate men who ever sat upon a throne. His own son, afterward Henry V., conspired against him, and the Pope declared him an outlaw.
“Deserted by every one, he went into exile, and made his home at Ingleheim, on the Rhine. One old servant, Kurt, followed his changing fortunes. He died at Liege.
“Misfortune followed the once mighty emperor even after death. The Pope would not allow his body to be buried for several years. Kurt watched by the coffin, like Rizpah by the bodies of her sons. He made it his shrine: he prayed by it daily.
“At last the Pope consented that the remains of the emperor should rest in the earth. The body was brought to Speyer. Kurt followed it. It was buried with great pomp, and tollings of bells.
“Some months after the ceremonious event Kurt died. As his breath was passing, say the legendary writers, all the bells began to toll. The bellmen ran to the belfries; no one was there, but the bells tolled on, swayed, it was believed, by unseen hands.
“Henry V. died in the same town. He was despised by the people, and he suffered terrible agonies in his last hours. As his last moments came the bells began to toll again. It was not the usual announcement of the death of the good, but the sharp notes that proclaim that a criminal is being led to justice; at least, so the people came to believe.
“One of the most beautiful stories of bells that I ever met is associated with a once famous factory that cast some of the most melodious bells in Holland and the towns of the Rhine. I will tell it to you.
THE HARMONY CHIME
Many years ago, in a large iron foundry in the city of Ghent, was found a young workman by the name of Otto Holstein. He was not nineteen years of age, but none of the workmen could equal him in his special department, – bell casting or moulding. Far and near the fame of Otto’s bells extended, – the clearest and sweetest, people said, that were ever heard.
Of course the great establishment of Von Erlangen, in which Otto worked, got the credit of his labors; but Von Erlangen and Otto himself knew very well to whom the superior tone of the bells was due. The master did not pay him higher wages than the others, but by degrees he grew to be general superintendent in his department in spite of his extreme youth.
“Yes, my bells are good,” he said to a friend one day, who was commenting upon their merits; “but they do not make the music I will yet strike from them. They ring alike for all things. To be sure, when they toll for a funeral the slow measure makes them seem mournful, but then the notes are really the same as in a wedding peal. I shall make a chime of bells that will sound at will every chord in the human soul.”
“Then wilt thou deal in magic,” said his friend, laughing; “and the Holy Inquisition will have somewhat to do with thee. No human power can turn a bell into a musical instrument.”
“But I can,” he answered briefly; “and, Inquisition or not, I will do it.”
He turned abruptly from his friend and sauntered, lost in thought, down the narrow street which led to his home. It was an humble, red-tiled cottage, of only two rooms, that he had inherited from his grandfather. There he lived alone with his widowed mother. She was a mild, pleasant-faced woman, and her eyes brightened as her son bent his tall head under the low doorway, as he entered the little room. “Thou art late, Otto,” she said, “and in trouble, too,” as she caught sight of his grave, sad face.
“Yes,” he answered. “When I asked Herr Erlangen for an increase of salary, for my work grows harder every day, he refused it. Nay, he told me if I was not satisfied, I could leave, for there were fifty men ready to take my place. Ready! yes, I warrant they’re ready enough, but to be able is a different thing.”
His mother sighed deeply.
“Thou wilt not leave Herr Erlangen’s, surely. It is little we get, but it keeps us in food.”
“I must leave,” he answered. “Nay, do not cry out, mother! I have other plans, and thou wilt not starve. Monsieur Dayrolles, the rich Frenchman, who lives in the Linden-Strasse, has often asked me why I do not set up a foundry of my own. Of course I laughed, – I, who never have a thaler to spend; but he told me he and several other rich friends of his would advance the means to start me in business. He is a great deal of his time at Erlangen’s, and is an enthusiast about fine bells. Ah! we are great friends, and I am going to him after supper.”
“People say he is crazy,” said his mother.
“Crazy!” indignantly. “People say that of everybody who has ideas they can’t understand. They say I am crazy when I talk of my chime of bells. If I stay with Erlangen, he gets the credit of my work; but my chime must be mine, – mine alone, mother.” His eyes lighted with a kind of wild enthusiasm whenever he talked on this subject.
His mother’s cheerful face grew sad, as she laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Why, Otto, thou art not thyself when thou speakest of those bells.”
“More my real self, mother, than at any other time!” he cried. “I only truly live when I think of how my idea is to be carried out. It is to be my life’s work; I know it, I feel it. It is upon me that my fate is woven inextricably in that ideal chime. It is God-sent. No great work, but the maker is possessed wholly by it. Don’t shake your head, mother. Wait till my ‘Harmony Chime’ sounds from the great cathedral belfry, and then shake it if you can.”
His mother smiled faintly.
“Thou art a boy, – a mere child, Otto, though a wonderful genius, I must confess. Thy hopes delude thee, for it would take a lifetime to carry out thine idea.”
“Then let it take a lifetime!” he cried out vehemently. “Let me accomplish it when I am too old to hear it distinctly, and I will be content that its first sounds toll my dirge. I must go now to Monsieur Dayrolles. Wish me good luck, dearest mother.” And he stooped and kissed her tenderly.
Otto did not fail. The strange old man in his visits to the foundry had noticed the germs of genius in the boy, and grown very fond of him. He was so frank, so honest, so devoted to his work, and had accomplished so much at his early age, that Monsieur Dayrolles saw a brilliant future before him. Besides, the old gentleman, with a Frenchman’s vanity, felt that if the “Harmony Chime” could be made, the name of the munificent patron would go down to posterity with that of the maker. He believed firmly that the boy would some day accomplish his purpose. So, although the revolt of the Netherlands had begun and he was preparing to return to his own country, he advanced the necessary funds, and saw Otto established in business before he quitted Ghent.
In a very short time work poured in upon Otto. During that long and terrible war the manufacture of cannon alone made the fortunes of the workers in iron. So five years from the time he left Von Erlangen we find Otto Holstein a rich man at twenty-four years of age. But the idea for which he labored had never for a moment left his mind. Sleeping or waking, toiling or resting, his thoughts were busy perfecting the details of the great work.
“Thou art twenty-four to-day, Otto,” said his good mother, “and rich beyond our hopes. When wilt thou bring Gertrude home to me? Thou hast been betrothed now for three years, and I want a daughter to comfort my declining years. Thou doest thy betrothed maiden a grievous wrong to delay without cause. The gossips are talking already.”
“Let them talk,” laughed Otto. “Little do Gertrude or I care for their silly tongues. She and I have agreed that the ‘Harmony Chime’ is to usher in our marriage-day. Why, good mother, no man can serve two mistresses, and my chime has the oldest claim. Let me accomplish it, and then the remainder of my life belongs to Gertrude, and thou, too, best of mothers.”
“Still that dream! still that dream!” sighed his mother. “Thou hast cast bell after bell, and until to-day I have heard nothing more of the wild idea.”
“No, because I needed money. I needed time, and thought, too, to make experiments. All is matured now. I have received an order to make a new set of bells for the great cathedral that was sacked last week by the ‘Iconoclasts,’ and I begin to-morrow.”
As Otto had said, his life’s work began the next day. He loved his mother, but he seemed now to forget her in the feverish eagerness with which he threw himself into his labors. He had been a devoted lover to Gertrude, but he now never had a spare moment to give to her, – in fact, he only seemed to remember her existence in connection with the peal which would ring in their wedding-day. His labors were prolonged far over the appointed time, and meanwhile the internal war raged more furiously, and the Netherlands were one vast battle-field. No interest did Otto seem to take in the stirring events around him. The bells held his whole existence captive.
At last the moulds were broken, and the bells came out of their husks perfect in form, and shining as stars in Otto’s happy eyes. They were mounted in the great belfry, and for the test-chime Otto had employed the best bell-ringers in the city.
It was a lovely May morning; and, almost crazed with excitement and anxiety, Otto, accompanied by a few chosen friends, waited outside the city for the first notes of the Harmony Chime. At some distance he thought he could better judge of the merits of his work.
At last the first notes were struck, clear, sonorous, and so melodious that his friends cried aloud with delight. But with finger upraised for silence, and eyes full of ecstatic delight, Otto stood like a statue until the last note died away. Then his friends caught him as he fell forward in a swoon, – a swoon so like death that no one thought he would recover.
But it was not death, and he came out of it with a look of serene peace on his face that it had not worn since boyhood. He was married to Gertrude that very day, but every one noticed that the ecstasy which transfigured his face seemed to be drawn more from the sound of the bells than the sweet face beside him.
“Don’t you see a spell is cast on him as soon as they begin to ring?” said one, after the bells had ceased to be a wonder. “If he is walking, he stops short, and if he is working, the work drops and a strange fire comes in his eyes; and I have seen him shudder all over as it he had an ague.”
In good truth, the bells seemed to have drawn a portion of Otto’s life to them. When the incursions of the war forced him to fly from Ghent with his family, his regrets were not for his injured property, but that he could not hear the bells.
He was absent two years, and when he returned it was to find the cathedral almost a ruin, and the bells gone no one knew where. From that moment a settled melancholy took possession of Otto. He made no attempt to retrieve his losses; in fact, he gave up work altogether, and would sit all day with his eyes fixed on the ruined belfry.
People said he was melancholy mad, and I suppose it was the truth; but he was mad with a kind of gentle patience very sad to see. His mother had died during their exile, and now his wife, unable with all her love to rouse him from his torpor, faded slowly away. He did not notice her sickness, and his poor numbed brain seemed imperfectly to comprehend her death. But he followed her to the grave, and turning from it moved slowly down the city, passed the door of his old home without looking at it, and went out of the city gates.
After that he was seen in every city in Europe at different intervals. Charitable people gave him alms, but he never begged. He would enter a town, take his station near a church and wait until the bells rang for matins or vespers, then take up his staff and, sighing deeply, move off. People noting the wistful look in his eyes would ask him what he wanted.
“I am seeking, – I am seeking,” was his only reply; and those were almost the only words any one ever heard from him, and he muttered them often to himself. Years rolled over the head of the wanderer, but still his slow march from town to town continued. His hair had grown white, and his strength had failed him so much that he only tottered instead of walked, but still that wistful seeking look was in his eyes.
He heard the old bells on the Rhine in his wanderings. He lingered long near the belfries of the sweetest voices; but their melodious tongues only spoke to him of his lost hope.
He left the river of sweet bells, and made a pilgrimage to England. It was the days of cathedrals in their beauty and glory, and here he again heard the tones that he loved, but which failed to realize his own ideal.
When a person fails to fulfil his ideal, his whole life seems a failure, – like something glorious and beautiful one meets and loses, and never again finds.
“Be true to the dreams of thy youth,” says a German author; and every soul is unhappy until the dreams of youth prove true.
One glorious evening in midsummer Otto was crossing a river in Ireland. The kind-hearted boatman had been moved by the old man’s imploring gestures to cross him. “He’s mighty nigh his end, anyhow,” he muttered, looking at the feeble movements of the old pilgrim as he stumbled to his seat.
Suddenly through the still evening air came the distant sound of a melodious chime. At the first note the pilgrim leaped to his feet and threw up his arms.
“O my God,” he cried, “found at last!”
“It’s the bells of the Convent,” said the wondering man, not understanding Otto’s words spoken in a foreign tongue, but answering his gesture. “They was brought from somewhere in Holland when they were fighting there. Moighty fine bells they are, anyhow. But he isn’t listening to me.”
No, he heard nothing but the bells. He merely whispered, “Come back to me after so many years, – O love of my soul, O thought of my life! Peal on, for your voices tell me of Paradise.”
The last note floated through the air, and as it died away something else soared aloft forever, free from the clouds and struggles of life.
His ideal was fulfilled now. Otto lay dead, his face full of peace and joy, for the weary quest of his crazy brain was over, and the Harmony Chime had called him to his eternal rest.
And, past that change of life that men call Death, we may well believe that he heard in the ascension to the celestial atmosphere the ringing of welcoming bells more beautiful than the Harmony Chime.
“I will relate another story,” said Mr. Beal. “It is like the Harmony Chime, but has a sadder ending.”
THE BELL-FOUNDER OF BRESLAU
There once lived in Breslau a famous bell-founder, the fame of whose skill caused his bells to be placed in many German towers. According to the ballad of Wilhelm Müller, —
“And all his bells they sounded
So full and clear and pure:
He poured his faith and love in,
Of that all men were sure.
But of all bells that ever
He cast, was one the crown,
That was the bell for sinners
At Breslau in the town.”
He had an ambition to cast one bell that would surpass all others in purity of tone, and that should render his own name immortal.
He was required to cast a bell for the Magdalen Church tower of that city of noble churches, – Breslau. He felt that this was opportunity for his masterpiece. All of his thoughts centred on the Magdalen bell.
After a long period of preparation, his metals were arranged for use. The form was walled up and made steady; the melting of the metals in the great bell-kettle had begun.
The old bell-founder had two faults which had grown upon him; a love of ale and a fiery temper.
While the metals were heating in the kettle, he said to his fire-watch, a little boy, —
“Tend the kettle for a moment; I am overwrought: I must go over to the inn, and take my ale, and nerve me for the casting.
“But, boy,” he added, “touch not the stopple; if you do, you shall rue it. That bell is my life, I have put all I have learned in life into it. If any man were to touch that stopple, I would strike him dead.”
The boy had an over-sensitive, nervous temperament. He was easily excited, and was subject to impulses that he could not easily control.
The command that he should not touch the stopple, under the dreadful penalty, strongly affected his mind, and made him wish to do the very thing he had been forbidden.
He watched the metal in the great kettle. It bubbled, billowed, and ran to and fro. In the composition of the glowing mass he knew that his master had put his heart and soul.
It would be a bold thing to touch the stopple, – adventurous. His hand began to move towards it.
The evil impulse grew, and his hand moved on.
He touched the stopple. The impulse was a wild passion now, – he turned it.
Then his mind grew dark – he was filled with horror. He ran to his master.
“I have turned the stopple; I could not help it,” he said. “The Devil tempted me!”
The old bell-founder clasped his hands and looked upward in agony. Then his temper flashed over him. He seized his knife, and stabbed the boy to the heart.
He rushed back to the foundry, hoping to stay the stream. He found the metal whole; the turning of the stopple had not caused the metal to flow.
The boy lay dead on the ground.
The old bell-founder knew the consequences of his act, and he did not seek to escape them. He cast the bell; then he went to the magistrates, and said, —
“My work is done; but I am a murderer. Do with me as you will.”
The trial was short; it greatly excited the city. The judges could not do otherwise than sentence him to death. But as he was penitent, he was promised that on the day of his execution he should receive the offices and consolations of the Church.
“You are good,” he said. “But grant me another favor. My bells will delight many ears when I am gone; my soul is in them; grant me another favor.”
“Name it,” said the judges.
“That I may hear the sound of my new bell before I die.”
The judges consulted, and answered, —
“It shall toll for your execution.”
The fatal day came.
Toll, toll, toll!
There was a sadness in the tone of the bell that touched every heart in Breslau. The bell seemed human.
Toll, toll, toll!
How melodious! how perfect! how beautiful! The very air seemed charmed! The years would come and go, and this bell would be the tongue of Breslau!
The old man came forth. He had forgotten his fate in listening to the bell. The heavy clang was so melodious that it filled his heart with joy.
“That is it! that is it; my heart, my life!” he said. “I know all the metals; I made the voice! Ring on, ring on forever! Ring in holy days, and happy festivals, and joy eternal to Breslau.”
Toll, toll, toll!
On passed the white-haired man, listening still to the call of the bell that summoned him to death.
He bowed his head at the place of execution to meet the stroke just as the last tone of the bell melted upon the air. His soul passed amid the silvery echoes. The bell rings on.
“Ay, of all bells that ever
He cast, is this the crown,
The bell of Church St. Magdalen
At Breslau in the town.
It was, from that time forward,
Baptized the Sinner’s Bell;
Whether it still is called so,
Is more than I can tell.”
“There is a sadness in the bells of the Rhine,” continued Mr. Beal, “as they ring from old belfries at evening under the ruins of the castles on the hills. The lords of the Rhine that once heard them are gone forever. The vineyards creep up the hills on the light trellises, and the sun and the earth, as it were, fill the grapes with wine. The woods are as green as of old. The rafts go drifting down the light waves as on feet of air. But the river of history is changed, and one feels the spirit of the change with deep sadness as one listens to the bells.”
THE LIGHTS HAVE GONE OUT IN THE CASTLE
I
The boatmen strike lightly the zither
As they drift ’neath the hillsides of green,
But gone from the Rhine is the palgrave,
And gone is the palgravine.
Play lightly, play lightly, O boatman,
When the shadows of night round thee fall,
For the lights have gone out in the castle,
The lights have gone out in the hall.
And the Rhine waters silently flow,
The old bells ring solemn and slow,
O boatman,
Play lightly,
Play lightly,
O boatman, play lightly and low.
II
Awake the old runes on the zither,
O boatman! the lips of the Rhine
Still kiss the green ruins of ivy,
And smile on the vineyards of wine.
Play lightly, play lightly, O boatman,
When the shadows of night round thee fall,
For the lights have gone out in the castle,
The lights have gone out in the hall.
And the Rhine waters silently flow,
The old bells ring solemn and slow,
O boatman,
Play lightly,
Play lightly,
O boatman, play lightly and low.
III
The lamps of the stars shine above thee
As they shone when the vineyards were green,
In the long vanished days of the palgrave,
In the days of the palgravine.
Play lightly, thy life tides are flowing,
Thy fate in the palgrave’s recall,
For the lights have gone out in the castle,
The lights have gone out in the hall.
And the Rhine waters silently flow,
And the old bells ring solemn and slow,
O boatman,
Play lightly,
Play lightly,
O boatman, play lightly and low.
The narratives of the evening devoted to the Bells on the Rhine were closed by a story by Master Lewis.
