|line||Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer|
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
|85||Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath|
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
|90||Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown|
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farmyard.
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;
There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
|95||Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame|
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous cornloft.
|100||There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates|
Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.