Classic Poem

'Mid blooming fields I daily rove
By Greta's dashing stream,
Or where thro' calm sequestered grove
The Lake's blue waters gleam.
I watch the spruce and jocund year
Her gay attire still changing;—
Sweet Nature to my soul is dear
While 'mid her works I'm ranging.

But blooming fields are not so sweet
As Henry's blessed presence!
His look of love, whene'er we meet,
Of Joy contains the essence.
No lake that gleams twixt ivied trees
Is half so bright and cheery
As thy bright eyes, whene'er they please
To shine on me, my deary!

How can I bear no more to view
Glad Nature's smiling features—
To bid these lovely scenes adieu,
The lonely wand'rer's teachers!
A thousand times more dear to me
My Henry's loving heart,
Than all the charms mine eye can see,
From which I fain would part.

The dashing Stream is not so clear,
So soothing and refreshing
As that dear voice I love to hear,
All tender thoughts expressing.
From flowers and trees and purling brooks
How gladly would I sever,
To dwell 'mid smoke and pent up nooks
In Henry's presence ever!