HIGHLAND INNS.
I.
The age is grown too vast: a monster plan
Must herald every sounding step it takes;
No will counts singly, and pretentious man
Is nothing'd by the huge machines he makes.
I love small things—a little bird that sings,
A little flower beside a wimpling brook,
A little child with light imaginings,
A little hour lent to a thoughtful book.
But of all little things I chiefly prize,
On a lone moor, a little Highland Inn,
Where, amid misty Bens and scowling skies,
And the unsleeping torrent's sleepy din,
A little maid attends with ready smiles
The foot-worn guest, and blazing faggots piles.
II.
More high-tier'd inns!—and shall I ever be
Pursued by London pomp and London flare?
Enter who will, this place is not for me,
Who love a lowly roof and simple fare.
Pile palaces for kings, where man to man
Makes of his wealth theatric proud display;
But in the face of Nature's Titan plan
These pompous toys should blush themselves away.
Give me—enough for comfort and for ease—
A low white house that peeps into the glen,
An open moor, a clump of sheltering trees,
And a few kindly words from kindly men:
These give—and, that the hours may smoothly pass,
A genial friend, and a well-tempered glass.
