Tales of a Wayside Inn, Part Third These are the tales those merry guestsTold to each other, well or ill;Like summer birds that lift their crestsAbove the borders of their nestsAnd twitter, and again are still. These are the tales, or new or old,In idle moments idly told;Flowers of the field with petals thin,Lilies that neither toil nor spin,And tufts of wayside weeds and gorseHung in the parlor of the innBeneath the sign of the Red Horse. And still, reluctant to retire,The friends sat talking by the fireAnd watched the smouldering embers burnTo ashes, and flash up againInto a momentary glow,Lingering like them when forced to go,And going when they would remain;For on the morrow they must turnTheir faces homeward, and the painOf parting touched with its unrestA tender nerve in every breast. But sleep at last the victory won;They must be stirring with the sun,And drowsily good night they said,And went still gossiping to bed,And left the parlor wrapped in gloom,The only live thing in the roomWas the old clock, that in its paceKept time with the revolving spheresAnd constellations in their flight,And struck with its uplifted maceThe dark, unconscious hours of night,To senseless and unlistening ears. Uprose the sun; and every guest,Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressedFor journeying home and city-ward;The old stage-coach was at the door,With horses harnessed, long beforeThe sunshine reached the withered swardBeneath the oaks, whose branches hoarMurmured: Farewell forevermore. Farewell! the portly Landlord cried;Farewell! the parting guests replied,But little thought that nevermoreTheir feet would pass that thershold oer;That nevermore together thereWould they assemble, free from care,To hear the oaks mysterious roar,And breathe the wholesome country air. Where are they now? What lands and skiesPaint pictures in their friendly eyes?What hope deludes, what promise cheers,What pleasant voices fill their ears?Two are beyond the salt sea waves,And three already in their graves.Perchance the living still may lookInto the pages of this book,And see the days of long agoFloating and fleeting to and fro,As in the well-remembered brookThey saw the inverted landscape gleam,And their own faces like a dreamLook up upon them from below.