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With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise
Of pastoral home-steads, had been long inlaid.
—These pleasing works the Housewife's skill produced:
Meanwhile, the unsedentary Master's hand
Was busier with his task, to rid, to plant,
To rear for food, for shelter, and delight;
A thriving covert! And when wishes, formed
In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind,
Restored me to my native Valleys, here
To end my days; well pleased was I to see
The once-bare Cottage, on the mountain-side,
Screened from assault of every bitter blast;
While the dark shadows of the summer leaves
Danced in the breeze, upon its mossy roof.
Time, which had thus afforded willing help
To beautify with Nature's fairest growth
This rustic Tenement, had gently shed,
Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace;
The comeliness of unenfeebled age.
But how could I say, gently? for he still
Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm,
A stirring foot, and head which beat at nights
Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes.
