Classic Poem

The flowers are such as English gardens bear;
And as my eye rests on their tender hues
The town has vanish'd, and I cannot choose
But wander in green ways, and taste the air
Sweet from broad English pastures. Yet whene'er
I veil my sight, imagination views
Strange Orient scenes, and wafted odour woo's
My thought to Indian gardens, fiercely fair.

For these were gather'd in an English home,
Where, as I walked amid the mingled scents,
You spoke of Eastern memories; of tents
Pitch'd in wild valleys where the leopards roam;
Of flowers that bloom by trackless torrent-rents,
And mighty rivers rolling golden foam.