Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade
Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch,
Whilst all the rest is sunshine. O'er the trees
In front, the village-church, with pinnacles,
And light grey tow'r, appears, while to the right
An amphitheatre of oaks extends
Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll,
Where once a castle frown'd, closes the scene.
And see, an infant troop, with flags and drum,
Are marching o'er that bridge, beneath the woods,
On--to the table spread upon the lawn,
Raising their little hands when grace is said;
Whilst she, who taught them to lift up their hearts
In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth,"
God, "their Creator,"--mistress of the scene,
(Whom I remember once, as young,) looks on,
Blessing them in the silence of her heart.

And, children, now rejoice,--
Now--for the holidays of life are few;
Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain,
The crack'd church-viol, resonant to-day,
Of mirth, though humble! Let the fiddle scrape
Its merriment, and let the joyous group
Dance, in a round, for soon the ills of life
Will come! Enough, if one day in the year,
If one brief day, of this brief life, be given
To mirth as innocent as yours!

Then we have an "aged widow" reading "GOD'S own Word" at her