Towards the Golden Isles,
  Where from Pierean springs
  The soul of Music sings
  Its sweet imaginings,
    Through all the Land of Smiles.

IV.

  Up the wide chimney rolls the social fire,
  Warming the hearts of matron, youth, and sire;
  Painting such grotesque shadows on the wall,
  The stripling looms a giant stout and tall,
  While they whose statures reach the common height
  Seem spectres mocking the hilarious night.
  From hand to hand the ripened fruit went round,
  And rural sports a pleased acceptance found;
  The youthful fiddler on his three-legged stool,
  Fancied himself at least an Ole Bull;
  Some easy bumpkin, seated on the floor,
  Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore;
  Some chose the graceful waltz or lively reel,
  While deeper heads the chess battalions wheel
  Till some old veteran, compelled to yield,
  More brave than skilful, vanquished, quits the field.
  As a flushed harper, when the doubtful fight
  Favors the prowess of some stately knight,
  In stirring numbers of triumphal song
  Upholds the spirits of the victor throng,
  A sturdy ploughboy, wedded to the soil,
  Thus sung the praises of the partner of his toil: