“Cling—clang!” The sunset-chime pealed out, And Sunday had begun; Nothburga sighed and turned about—— The reaping was not done.
She laid her curving sickle by, And said her evening hymn, Wide-gazing on the starless sky, Where all was dark and dim.
But hark! A hasty summons came To drown her whispered words, An angry voice called out her name, And scared the nestling birds.
“What ho, Nothburga, lazy one! Bend to your task again, And do not think the day is done Till you have reaped this grain.”
“But master,” spoke Nothburga low, “It’s the Sabbath time; We must keep holy hours now, After the sunset-chime.”
And then in rage the master cried: “The day belongs to me! I’m lord of all the country side, And hold the time in fee!”
“No Sunday-thought shall spoil the gain That comes a hundred fold From reaping of my golden grain, Which shall be turned to gold.”
“Nay, Master, give me gracious leave The Lord’s will I must keep; Upon the holy Sabbath day My sickle shall not reap!”
The master raised his heavy hand To deal the maid a blow; “Thou shalt!” he cried his fierce command, And would have struck, when lo!
Nothburga whirled her sickle bright And tossed it in the sky! A flash, a gleam of silver light, As it went circling by,