The collected poems of William Ellery Channing the younger, 1817-1901

Methinks I see the hilltops round me swell,
And meadow vales that kiss their tawny brooks,
And fawn the glittering sands that hug the grass,
Old valleys shorn by farmers numerous years,
Some mossy orchards murmuring with perfume,
And our red farm-house. What a wreck that was!—
Its rotten shingles peeling 'fore the winds
When roaring March fell in the offshore breeze;
The kitchen, with its salt-box full of eggs,
And Taylor's Holy Living on the lid.
Our parlor kept its buffet rarely oped—
Much did I wonder at yon glassy doors,
And stacks of crockery sublimely piled—
Hills of blue plates, and teapots sere with age;
And spoons, old silver, tiniest of that breed.

980

It was a sacred place, and, save I whisked
Sometimes a raisin or a seed-cake thence,
With furtive glance I scanned the curious spot.
The curtains at the windows kept all dark;
Green paper was the compound; and the floor,
Well scrubbed, showed its vacuities, content
With modest subterfuge of mats (the work
Of some brave aunt, industrious as a fly),
And interwove of rags, yet such to me
I hardly dared intrude on them my shoe.

University of Virginia Library

THE NEW ENGLAND FARM-HOUSE

IN CANTON, MASSACHUSETTS