"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 inspired, Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired. Where village statesmen talked 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 whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day. The pictures, placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose. The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain, transitory splendor! 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 to be found, Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest."