The village inn, the woodfire burning bright,
The solitary taper's flickering light,
The lowly couch, the casement swinging free,--
My noblest friend, was this a place for thee?
No fitting place! Yet there, from all apart,
We poured forth mind for mind and heart for heart,
Ranging from idle words and tales of mirth
To the deep mysteries of heaven and earth
Yet there thine own sweet voice, in accents low,
First breathed Iphigenias tale of wee,
The glorious tale, by Goethe fitly told,
And cast as finely in an English mould
By Taylor's kindred spirit, high and bold:[21]
No fitting place! yet that delicious hour
Fell on my soul, like dewdrops on a flower
Freshening and nourishing and making bright
The plant, decaying less from time than blight,
Flinging Hope's sunshine o'er the faint dim aim,
Thy praise my motive, thine applause my fame.
No fitting place! yet (inconsistent strain
And selfish!) come, I prithee, come again!

Three Mile Cross, Feb 1829.
_Sharpe's Magazine_.


[21] Mr. Taylor's transition of Goethe's _Iphigenia in Tauris_; one
of the finest plays out of Shakspeare, and now extremely rare.

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