Classic Poem

There's joy in the greenwood with Morn's early note,
O'er mountain and valley her song is afloat;
A joy as of Eden, a gladness, a bloom,
As if earth contain'd not a tear, not a tomb.

On hills and in valleys the lambs are at play;
The cuckoo is calling in woods far away;
The streams are rejoicing to wander with spring —
With the song of their revel the green valleys ring.

The spirit of Beauty is ranging abroad,
And show'ring her daisies to deck the green sod;
She's over the mountain and thro' the deep dell,
And hangs by the fountain her pretty bluebell.

She clothes with her ivy the old ruin'd wall,
And leans o'er the cliff and the steep waterfall;
And where she has tarried beside the clear stream
The primrose bank hangs like a beautiful dream.

Her footsteps we trace where the violet grows,
And the joy of her face in the laughing wild rose.
A mighty emotion, old Ocean, thou art,
But the song of the syren has hush'd thy great heart.

The wild bee is humming, the lark is on wing,
The cushat is cooing beside the lone spring;
The poet is coming to join the glad throng,
Impell'd by Love's spirit, the soul of his song.