Classic Poem

A STEEPLE issuing from a leafy rise,
With farmy fields in front, and sloping green,
Dear Hampstead, is thy southern face serene,
Silently smiling on approaching eyes
Within, thine ever-shifting looks surprise,—
Streets, hills, and dells, trees overhead now seen,
Now down below, with smoking roofs between,—

A village, revelling in varieties.
Then northward what a range,—with heath and pond,
Nature's own ground; woods that let mansions through,
And cottaged vales with pillowy fields beyond,
And clump of darkening pines, and prospects blue,
And that clear path through all, where daily meet
Cool cheeks, and brilliant eyes, and morn-elastic feet.