Tales of a Wayside Inn. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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Tales of a Wayside Inn - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло


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       Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

      Tales of a Wayside Inn

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664173782

       PRELUDE.

       THE WAYSIDE INN.

       THE LANDLORD'S TALE.

       PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

       INTERLUDE.

       THE STUDENT'S TALE.

       THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO.

       INTERLUDE.

       THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE.

       THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI.

       INTERLUDE.

       THE SICILIAN'S TALE.

       KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

       INTERLUDE.

       THE MUSICIAN'S TALE.

       THE SAGA OF KING OLAF.

       INTERLUDE.

       THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE.

       TORQUEMADA.

       INTERLUDE.

       THE POET'S TALE.

       THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH.

       FINALE.

       BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

       FLIGHT THE SECOND.

       THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

       ENCELADUS.

       THE CUMBERLAND.

       SNOW-FLAKES.

       A DAY OF SUNSHINE.

       SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.

       WEARINESS.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,

       Across the meadows bare and brown,

       The windows of the wayside inn

       Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves

       Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves

       Their crimson curtains rent and thin.

      As ancient is this hostelry

       As any in the land may be,

       Built in the old Colonial day,

       When men lived in a grander way,

       With ampler hospitality;

       A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,

       Now somewhat fallen to decay,

       With weather-stains upon the wall,

       And stairways worn, and crazy doors,

       And creaking and uneven floors,

       And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.

      A region of repose it seems,

       A place of slumber and of dreams,

       Remote among the wooded hills!

       For there no noisy railway speeds,

       Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;

       But noon and night, the panting teams

       Stop under the great oaks, that throw

       Tangles of light and shade below,

       On roofs and doors and window-sills.

       Across the road the barns display

       Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay,

       Through the wide doors the breezes blow,

       The wattled cocks strut to and fro,

       And, half effaced by rain and shine,

       The Red Horse prances on the sign.

       Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode

       Deep silence reigned, save when a gust

       Went rushing down the county road,

       And skeletons of leaves, and dust,

       A moment quickened by its breath,

       Shuddered and danced their dance of death,

       And through the ancient oaks o'erhead

       Mysterious voices moaned and fled.

      But from the parlor of the inn

      


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