Behold this antique dome by envious time,
Grown crazy, and in ev'ry part decay'd;
Full well, alas, it claims my humble rhyme,
For such lone haunts and contemplation made.
Ah see the hearth, where once the chearful fire
Blaz'd high, and warm'd the winter trav'lers toes;
And see the walls, which once did high aspire,
Admit the storms, and ev'ry wind that blows.
In yonder corner, now to ruin gone,
The ancient housewife's curtain'd bed appear'd,
Where she and her man John did sleep alone,
Nor nightly robber, nor the screech owl fear'd.
There did they snore full oft' the whole night out,
Smoking the sable pipe, 'till that did fall,
Reft from their jaws by Somnus' sleepy rout,
And on their faces pour'd its scorched gall.
And in the compass of yon' smaller gang,
The swain Batavian once his courtship made,
To some Dutch lass, as thick as she was long;
"Come then, my angel, come," the shepherd said,
"And let us for the bridal bed prepare;
For you alone shall ease my future life,
And you alone shall soften all my care,
My strong, my hearty, and industrious wife."
Thus they—but eating ruin now hath spread
Its wings destructive o'er the antique dome;
The mighty fabrick now is all a shed,
Scarce fit to be the wand'ring beggar's home.
And none but me it's piteous fate lament,
None, none but me o'er it's sad ashes mourn,
Sent by the fates, and by Apollo sent,
To shed their latest tears upon it's silent urn.
[214] This is the germ of the poem, "The Deserted Farm-House," Vol. I, p. 40, supra. A comparison of the two versions will illustrate the thorough way in which Freneau often revised his poems.