Classic Poem

When first the flame of Day
Crimsons the sea-like mist,
And from the valley, rolls away
The haze,—by the sunbeam kissed—
Then to the lonely woods, I pass,
With angling rod and line;
While yet the dew-drops, in the grass
Like flashing diamonds shine.

How vast the mossy forest-halls,
Silent—and full of gloom!
Thro' the high roof the day-beam falls,
Like torch-light in a tomb.
The old trunks of trees rise round
Like pillars in a church of old,
And the wind, fills them with a sound
As if a bell were tolled.

Where falls the noisy stream,
In many a bubble bright,
Along whose grassy margin gleam
Flowers, gaudy to the sight,
There, silently I stand,
Watching my angle play;
And eagerly draw to the land
My speckled prey.

Oft ere the carrion bird has left
His eyrie, the dead tree.
Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft
The cloud in heaven's blue sea,
Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds,
To meet the misty day,
My foot hath shaken the bending reeds,
My rod sought out its prey.

And when the Twilight, with a blush
Upon her cheek, goes by,
And Evening's universal hush
Fills all the darkened sky
And steadily the tapers burn
In villages far away,
Then from the lonely stream I turn
And from the forests gray.