Weary and travel-worn,—her lips unwet
With water, at a straw-thatcht cottage door
The Wanderer knockt. An ancient crone came forth
And saw her need, and hospitable brought
Her bowl of barley-broth, and bade her drink.
Thankful she raised it:—but a graceless boy
And impudent stood by, and, ere the half
Was drained, “Ha! ha! see how the glutton swills!”
With insolent jeer he cried. The Goddess' ire
Was roused, and, as he spoke, what liquor yet
The bowl retained full in his face she dasht.
His cheeks broke out in blotches:—what were arms
Turned legs, and from the shortened trunk a tail
Tapered behind. Small mischief evermore
Might that small body work:—the lizard's self
Was larger now than he. With terror shriekt
The crone, and weeping stoopt her altered child
To raise;—the little monster fled her grasp
And wriggled into hiding. Still his name
His nature tells, and, from the star-like spots
That mark him, known as Stellio crawls the Newt.