He paused a moment, and his features took The flitting sweetness of that inward look I hinted at before; but, scarcely seen, It shrank for shelter ’neath his harder mien, And, rapping his black pipe of ashes clear, He went on with a self-derisive sneer: “No doubt we make a part of God’s design, And break the forest-path for feet divine; To furnish foothold for this grand prevision Is good, and yet--to be the mere transition, That, you will say, is also good, though I Scarce like to feed the ogre By-and-by. Raw edges rasp my nerves; my taste is wooed By things that are, not going to be, good, Though were I what I dreamed two lustres gone, I’d stay to help the Consummation on, Whether a new Rome than the old more fair, Or a deadflat of rascal-ruled despair; But _my_ skull somehow never closed the suture That seems to knit yours firmly with the future, So you ’ll excuse me if I’m sometimes fain To tie the past’s warm nightcap o’er my brain; I’m quite aware ’tis not in fashion here, But then your northeast winds are _so_ severe! “But to my story: though ’tis truly naught But a few hints in Memory’s sketchbook caught, And which may claim a value on the score Of calling back some scenery now no more. Shall I confess? The tavern’s only Lar Seemed (be not shocked!) its homely-featured bar. Here dozed a fire of beechen logs, that bred Strange fancies in its embers golden-red, And nursed the loggerhead whose hissing dip, Timed by nice instinct, creamed the mug of flip That made from mouth to mouth its genial round, Nor left one nature wholly winter-bound; Hence dropt the tinkling coal all mellow-ripe For Uncle Reuben’s talk-extinguished pipe; Hence rayed the heat, as from an in-door sun, That wooed forth many a shoot of rustic fun. Here Ezra ruled as king by right divine; No other face had such a wholesome shine, No laugh like his so full of honest cheer; Above the rest it crowed like Chanticleer.