Classic Poem

With tall & silent trees to guard its mounts
And dotted with the juniper & yew
Crown'd with old woods, a slope of sward in view
Runs swelling to the splendours of the South.
The nightingale sings near the yellow oak:
Lifted as on an [?] cup.
You feel with Heaven alone.
Some poet might the spirit here invoke
Calling it up,
And so bequeath his own.