And thereupon the Syndic gravely read
    The proclamation of the King; then said: 
    “Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,
    But cometh back on foot, and begs its way;
    Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds,
    Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds! 
    These are familiar proverbs; but I fear
    They never yet have reached your knightly ear. 
    What fair renown, what honor, what repute
    Can come to you from starving this poor brute? 
    He who serves well and speaks not, merits more
    Then they who clamor loudest at the door. 
    Therefore the law decrees that, as this steed
    Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed
    To comfort his old age, and to provide
    Shelter in stall, and food and field beside.”

    The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all
    Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. 
    The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee,
    And cried aloud:  “Right well it pleaseth me! 
    Church-bells at best but ring us to the door;
    But go not in to mass; my bell doth more: 
    It cometh into court and pleads the cause
    Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;
    And this shall make, in every Christian clime,
    The Bell of Atri famous for all time.”

Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872.

* * * * *

AMONG THE NOBLEST.

    “Yes, well your story pleads the cause
    Of those dumb mouths that have no speech,
    Only a cry from each to each
    In its own kind, with its own laws;
    Something that is beyond the reach
    Of human power to learn or teach,—­
    An inarticulate moan of pain,
    Like the immeasurable main
    Breaking upon an unknown beach.”

    Thus spake the poet with a sigh;
    Then added, with impassioned cry,
    As one who feels the words he speaks,
    The color flushing in his cheeks,
    The fervor burning in his eye: 
    “Among the noblest in the land,
    Though he may count himself the least,
    That man I honor and revere
    Who without favor, without fear,
    In the great city dares to stand
    The friend of every friendless beast,
    And tames with his unflinching hand
    The brutes that wear our form and face,
    The were-wolves of the human race!”

Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872.

* * * * *

THE FALLEN HORSE.

Mr. George Herbert’s love to music was such that he went usually twice every week, on certain appointed days, to the Cathedral Church in Salisbury.  When rector of Bemerton, in one of his walks to Salisbury, he saw a poor man with a poorer horse, that was fallen under his load; they were both in distress, and needed present help, which Mr. Herbert perceiving, put off his canonical coat and helped the poor man to unload, and after to load his horse.  The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man; and was so like the good Samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse; and told him, “That if he loved himself, HE SHOULD BE MERCIFUL TO HIS BEAST.”