Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd 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 chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

SUMMER.

Goldsmith.

STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
And woods were brighten'd, and soft gales

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,

They gather'd mid-day round the wooded height,

And, in their fading glory, shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown,

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,
Through the grey mist thrust up its shatter'd lance,
And rocking on the cliff was left

The dark pine, blasted, bare, and cleft.

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below

Glow'd the rich valley, and the river's flow

Was darken'd by the forest's shade,
Or glisten'd in the white cascade;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheel'd his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash,

I saw the current whirl and flash,—

And richly, by the blue lake's silver beech,

The woods were bending with a silent reach.
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,

The music of the village bell

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,

Was ringing to the merry shout

That faint and far the glen sent out,

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,

Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset

With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,—

If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep

Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,

Go to the woods and hills!--No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

Longfellow.