PRELUDE. THE WAYSIDE INN. ONE Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves 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, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams On roofs and doors and window-sills. Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, And, half effaced by rain and shine, \ The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode 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 Of laughter and of loud applause, The fire-light, shedding over all The splendor of its ruddy glow, |