Canto I.
I.
"Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed, The sultry hour of noon is
near, Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need, Stay, then, and, taste its
sweetness here. The mountain path which thou hast sped Is steep, and
difficult to tread, And many a farther step \'twill cost, Ere thou wilt find
another host; But if thou scorn\'st not humble fare, Such as the pilgrim
loves to share,-- Not luxury\'s enfeebling spoil, But bread secured by
patient toil-- Then lend thine ear to my request, And be the old man\'s
welcome guest. Thou seest yon aged willow tree, In all its summer
pomp arrayed, \'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me, My cot is built
beneath its shade; And from its roots clear waters burst To cool thy lip, and
quench thy thirst:-- I love it, and if harm should, come To it, I think that
I should weep; \'Tis as a guardian of my home, So faithfully it seems to
keep Its watch above the spot where I Have lived so long, and mean to die.
Come, pardon me for prating thus, But age, you know, is garrulous; And in
life\'s dim decline, we hold Thrice dear whate\'er we loved of old,-- The
stream upon whose banks we played, The forest through whose shades we
strayed, The spot to which from sober truth We stole to dream the dreams
of youth, The single star of all Night\'s zone, Which we have chosen as our
own, Each has its haunting memory Of things which never more may be."