As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality;A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills.
Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled.
But from the parlor of the inn A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir:
Oft interrupted by the din Of laughter and of loud applause, And, in each intervening pause, The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all The splendor of its ruddy glow, Filled the whole parlor large and low;It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, It touched with more than wonted grace Fair Princess Mary's pictured face;It bronzed the rafters overhead, On the old spinet's ivory keys It played inaudible melodies, It crowned the sombre clock with flame, The hands, the hours, the maker's name, And painted with a livelier red The Landlord's coat-of-arms again;And, flashing on the window-pane, Emblazoned with its light and shade The jovial rhymes, that still remain, Writ near a century ago, By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.
Before the blazing fire of wood Erect the rapt musician stood;And ever and anon he bent His head upon his instrument, And seemed to listen, till he caught Confessions of its secret thought,--The joy, the triumph, the lament, The exultation and the pain;Then, by the magic of his art, He soothed the throbbings of its heart, And lulled it into peace again.
Around the fireside at their ease There sat a group of friends, entranced With the delicious melodies Who from the far-off noisy town Had to the wayside inn come down, To rest beneath its old oak-trees.
The fire-light on their faces glanced, Their shadows on the wainscot danced, And, though of different lands and speech, Each had his tale to tell, and each Was anxious to be pleased and please.
And while the sweet musician plays, Let me in outline sketch them all, Perchance uncouthly as the blaze With its uncertain touch portrays Their shadowy semblance on the wall.
But first the Landlord will I trace;
Grave in his aspect and attire;
A man of ancient pedigree, A Justice of the Peace was he, Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire."Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, And in the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed;He beareth gules upon his shield, A chevron argent in the field, With three wolf's heads, and for the crest A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed Upon a helmet barred; below The scroll reads, "By the name of Howe."And over this, no longer bright, Though glimmering with a latent light, Was hung the sword his grandsire bore In the rebellious days of yore, Down there at Concord in the fight.
A youth was there, of quiet ways, A Student of old books and days, To whom all tongues and lands were known And yet a lover of his own;With many a social virtue graced, And yet a friend of solitude;A man of such a genial mood The heart of all things he embraced, And yet of such fastidious taste, He never found the best too good.
Books were his passion and delight, And in his upper room at home Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, In vellum bound, with gold bedight, Great volumes garmented in white, Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome.
He loved the twilight that surrounds The border-land of old romance;Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, And mighty warriors sweep along, Magnified by the purple mist, The dusk of centuries and of song.
The chronicles of Charlemagne, Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, Mingled together in his brain With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.
A young Sicilian, too, was there;
In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its volcanic air Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his liege, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good King Bomba's happy reign.
His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky light;His hands were small; his teeth shone white As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke;His sinews supple and strong as oak;
Clean shaven was he as a priest, Who at the mass on Sunday sings, Save that upon his upper lip His beard, a good palm's length least, Level and pointed at the tip, Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings.
The poets read he o'er and o'er, And most of all the Immortal Four Of Italy; and next to those, The story-telling bard of prose, Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales Of the Decameron, that make Fiesole's green hills and vales Remembered for Boccaccio's sake.
Much too of music was his thought;
