But from the parlor of the inn A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir: Oft interrupted by the din Of laughter and of loud applause, And, in each intervening pause, The music of a violin.The fire-light, shedding over all The splendor of its ruddy glow,Filled the whole parlor large and low; It gleamed on wainscot and on wall,It touched with more than wonted grace Fair Princess Mary's pictured face;It bronzed the rafters overhead, On the old spinet's ivory keys It played inaudible melodies,It crowned the sombre clock with flame, The hands, the hours, the maker's name, And painted with a livelier red The Landlord's coat-of-arms again; And, flashing on the window-pane,Emblazoned with its light and shade The jovial rhymes, that still remain,Writ near a century ago, By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.
—Tales of a Wayside Inn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
