Classic Poem

W HERE'ER the vernal bower, the autumnal field,
The summer arbour, and the winter fire;
Where'er the charms, which all the seasons yield,
Or Nature's gay museum can inspire,

Delight the bosom, or the Fancy please,
Or life exalt above a splendid dream;
There, Brattle's fame shall freight the grateful breeze,
Each grove resound it, and reflect each stream.

Each bough, that waves o'er brown Pomona's plains,
Each bud, that blossoms in the ambrosial bower,
Nursed by this great Improver's art, obtains
A nobler germin, and a fairer flower.

The rural vale a kind asylum gave,
When Peace the seats of ermined woe forsook;
Retirement found an Athens in a cave,
And man grew social with the babbling brook.

Here, happy Brattle, 'twas thy envied place,
In gay undress fair Nature to surprise;
By Art's slight veil to heighten every grace,
And bid a Vauxhall from a marish rise.

The airy hill-top, and the Dryad's bower,
No more shall tempt our sportive nymphs to rove;
This willow-shade shall woo the social hour,
And Brattle's mall surpass Arcadia's grove.

Fair Friendship, lovely virgin, here resort;
Here with thy charms the joy-winged morn beguile:
Thy eyes shall glisten eloquence to thought,
And teach the cheek of hopeless gloom to smile.

Here too, thy modest damsels oft shall pass,
Yield a soft splendour to the evening beam,
Gaze at the image in the watery glass,
And blush new beauty to the flattering stream:

While the pleased Naiad, watching their return,
As oft at morn her sportive limbs she laves,
Hears their loved voice, and leaning on her urn,
Stops the smooth current of her silver waves.