UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it,--his last work on earth: Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair 10 Its waste.--Though crumbling with each breath of air, In annual renovation thus it stands-- Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare. 1832.
