Home  »  Complete Poetical Works by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  »  Part Second. The Sicilian’s Tale: The Bell of Atri

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882). Complete Poetical Works. 1893.

Tales of a Wayside Inn

Part Second. The Sicilian’s Tale: The Bell of Atri

AT Atri in Abruzzo, a small town

Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,

One of those little places that have run

Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,

And then sat down to rest, as if to say,

“I climb no farther upward, come what may,”—

The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,

So many monarchs since have borne the name,

Had a great bell hung in the market-place,

Beneath a roof, projecting some small space

By way of shelter from the sun and rain.

Then role he through the streets with all his train,

And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,

Made proclamation, that whenever wrong

Was done to any man, he should but ring

The great bell in the square, and he, the King,

Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.

Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped,

What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.

Suffice it that, as all things must decay,

The hempen rope at length was worn away,

Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand,

Loosened and wasted in the ringer’s hand,

Till one, who noted this in passing by,

Mended the rope with braids of briony,

So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine

Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt

A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,

Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,

Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,

Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports

And prodigalities of camps and courts;—

Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old,

His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,

Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,

Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all,

To starve and shiver in a naked stall,

And day by day sat brooding in his chair,

Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.

At length he said: “What is the use of need

To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,

Eating his head off in my stables here,

When rents are low and provender is dear?

Let him go feed upon the public ways;

I want him only for the holidays.”

So the old steed was turned into the heat

Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;

And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,

Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime

It is the custom in the summer time,

With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,

The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;

When suddenly upon their senses fell

The loud alarm of the accusing bell!

The Syndic started from his deep repose,

Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose

And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace

Went panting forth into the market-place,

Where the great bell upon its cross-beams swung,

Reiterating with persistent tongue,

In half-articulate jargon, the old song:

“Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!”

But ere he reached the belfry’s light arcade

He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,

No shape of human form of woman born,

But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,

Who with uplifted head and eager eye

Was tugging at the vines of briony.

“Domeneddio!” cried the Syndic straight,

“This is the Knight of Atri’s steed of state!

He calls for justice, being sore distressed,

And pleads his cause as loudly as the best.”

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd

Had rolled together like a summer cloud,

And told the story of the wretched beast

In five-and-twenty different ways at least,

With much gesticulation and appeal

To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.

The Knight was called and questioned; in reply

Did not confess the fact, did not deny;

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,

And set at naught the Syndic and the rest,

Maintaining, in an angry undertone,

That he should do what pleased him with his own.

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

Than 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.”