| |
| THESE are the tales those merry guests | |
| Told to each other, well or ill; | |
| Like summer birds that lift their crests | |
| Above the borders of their nests | |
| And twitter, and again are still. | 5 |
| |
| These are the tales, or new or old, | |
| In idle moments idly told; | |
| Flowers of the field with petals thin, | |
| Lilies that neither toil nor spin, | |
| And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse | 10 |
| Hung in the parlor of the inn | |
| Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. | |
| |
| And still, reluctant to retire, | |
| The friends sat talking by the fire | |
| And watched the smouldering embers burn | 15 |
| To ashes, and flash up again | |
| Into a momentary glow, | |
| Lingering like them when forced to go, | |
| And going when they would remain; | |
| For on the morrow they must turn | 20 |
| Their faces homeward, and the pain | |
| Of parting touched with its unrest | |
| A tender nerve in every breast. | |
| |
| But sleep at last the victory won; | |
| They must be stirring with the sun, | 25 |
| And drowsily good night they said, | |
| And went still gossiping to bed, | |
| And left the parlor wrapped in gloom. | |
| The only live thing in the room | |
| Was the old clock, that in its pace | 30 |
| Kept time with the revolving spheres | |
| And constellations in their flight, | |
| And struck with its uplifted mace | |
| The dark, unconscious hours of night, | |
| To senseless and unlistening ears. | 35 |
| |
| Uprose the sun; and every guest, | |
| Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed | |
| For journeying home and city-ward; | |
| The old stage-coach was at the door, | |
| With horses harnessed, long before | 40 |
| The sunshine reached the withered sward | |
| Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar | |
| Murmured: “Farewell forevermore.” | |
| |
| “Farewell!” the portly Landlord cried; | |
| “Farewell!” the parting guests replied, | 45 |
| But little thought that nevermore | |
| Their feet would pass that threshold o’er; | |
| That nevermore together there | |
| Would they assemble, free from care, | |
| To hear the oaks’ mysterious roar, | 50 |
| And breathe the wholesome country air. | |
| |
| Where are they now? What lands and skies | |
| Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? | |
| What hope deludes, what promise cheers, | |
| What pleasant voices fill their ears? | 55 |
| Two are beyond the salt sea waves, | |
| And three already in their graves. | |
| Perchance the living still may look | |
| Into the pages of this book, | |
| And see the days of long ago | 60 |
| Floating and fleeting to and fro, | |
| As in the well-remembered brook | |
| They saw the inverted landscape gleam, | |
| And their own faces like a dream | |
| Look up upon them from below. | 65 |
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