Classic Poem

In haste, she strew'd her cottage floor
With rushes, to the open door;
Arrang'd the hearth, rous'd up the fire;
Swept both her stools, and dress'd them both
In covers of outlandish cloth,
The work of mind-rais'd men and times;
Brought by her grandsire's father's sire,
(A merchant, known in many climes,)
From Greece, his mother's grave.
And that lone maid remember'd well
Traditions (which she lov'd to tell,)
Of old Judea's sacred sod,
The altar of the living God;
Of lands where written speech was known;
And of her ancestor, the bard
Renown'd, and to be famous long,
Who many pains and dangers dar'd,
And sang (where heroes thought in stone,
And men were wise as brave,)
The earliest written song.
Unletter'd, not unwise, was he
Whom now their daughter sate to see;
An outlaw, learn'd in mystic lore,
The worship of his sires of yore.
How tardy seem'd his coming! " Hark!
He moors, " she said, " his little bark; "
And while she spoke, he stood before
The seated maiden's open door:
At once, homed sadness left her eye,
Or feign'd a wond'rous levity;
As if a flower had long'd to die,
And wak'd to laughter suddenly.