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 wilt¹ find another host； But if thou scorn'st not humble² 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 aged³ willow⁴ tree, In all its summer pomp arrayed, 'Tis near, wend thither⁵, then, with me, My cot is built beneath its shade； And from its roots clear waters burst To cool thy lip, and quench⁶ thy thirst：—— I love it, and if harm should, come To it, I think that I should weep； 'Tis as a guardian⁷ 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 prating⁸ thus, But age, you know, is garrulous⁹； 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."