The good old couple were amaz’d,
And often on each other gaz’d;
For both were frighten’d to the heart,
And just began to cry, “What art!”
Then softly turn’d aside, to view
Whether the lights were burning blue. 
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on’t,
Told them their calling and their errand: 
“Good folk, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints,” the hermits said;
“No hurt shall come to you or yours: 
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown’d;
While you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.” 
  They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose ev’ry beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb’d slowly after. 
  The chimney widen’d, and grew higher
Became a steeple with a spire. 
  The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten’d to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below: 
In vain; for a superior force
Applied at bottom stops its course: 
Doom’d ever in suspense to dwell,
’Tis now no kettle, but a bell. 
  A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increas’d by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower. 
The flyer, though it had leaden feet,
Turn’d round so quick you scarce could see’t;
But, slacken’d by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour. 
The jack and chimney, near ally’d,
Had never left each other’s side;
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear’d,
Became a clock, and still adher’d;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cookmaid not to burn
That roast meat, which it cannot turn. 
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like an huge snail, half up the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change, a pulpit grew. 
  The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glitt’ring show,
To a less noble substance chang’d,
Were now but leathern buckets rang’d. 
  The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3]
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The little Children in the Wood,
Now seem’d to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter: 
And, high in order plac’d, describe
The heraldry of ev’ry tribe.[4]
  A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos’d into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folk disposed to sleep. 
  The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancy’d most.