The village inn, the woodfire burning bright,
The solitary taper's flickering light,
The lowly couch, the casement swinging free,—
My noblest friend, was this a place for thee?
No fitting place! Yet there, from all apart,
We poured forth mind for mind and heart for heart,
Ranging from idle words and tales of mirth
To the deep mysteries of heaven and earth
Yet there thine own sweet voice, in accents low,
First breathed Iphigenias tale of wee,