Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around-- And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. [Illustration: The village master taught his little school] But pass'd is all his fame: the very spot, Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd. Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound. And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place: The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door-- The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day-- The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose-- The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen bows, and flowers, and fennel gay-- While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Rang'd o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. [Illustration: The village ale-house] Vain, transitory splendors! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart: Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. [Illustration: The coy maid half willing to be press'd]