Tales of a Wayside Inn

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 rode 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.