Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Now musing o'er the changing scene Farmers behind the tavern screen Collect; with elbows idly press'd On hob, reclines the corner's guest, Reading the news to mark again The bankrupt lists or price of grain. Puffing the while his red-tipt pipe He dreams o'er troubles nearly ripe, Yet, winter's leisure to regale, Hopes better times, and sips his ale.

Whoe'er has travel'd life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome, at an inn.

He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is. O holy tavern! O miraculous tavern!--holy, because no carking cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and miraculous, because of the spits, which themselves turn round and round!

What care if the day Be turned to gray, What care if the night come soon! We may choose the pace Who bow for grace, At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. Now spurs the lated traveller apace To gain the timely inn, and near approaches The subject of our watch.