Classic Poem

Sweet flow'rets scent the ambient air,
And proudly deck the gay parterre:
Whose bank a rimpled streamlet laves,
While willows kiss the fairy waves
Where the parched herds their bev'rage sip,
And panting sheep their fleeces dip,
As Phœbus on its bosom plays,
And seems to quench his glowing rays.
The ducks a pleasing silence keep,
And cradled in the rushes sleep;
While geese, in long extended row,
Approach to cool their breasts of snow.
There Sportive steeds adorn the scene,—
Some press supine the heath-deck'd green;
Here the impatient oxen low,—
Gaze on the stream, and scorn the plow,—
Others drag slow the creaking wain,
High laden with the yellow grain;
Blithe whistling swains their footsteps guide,
Who toil and heat alike deride.
Now with delight my eyes pursue
A little sun-burnt healthy crew,
Of straw-roof'd cots the tenants gay,
Come forth with glee to sing and play:
The elder walk with careful tread,
Fearing to crush a mushroom's head;
For if they find a plenteous store,
They bear them to the 'squire's door,—
Receive a trifle for their pains,
And pleas'd run home to shew their gains.

Behind yon mansion, modern, neat,
Loved Hospitality's retreat;
Where plenty decorates the board,
And Bacchus brings his choicest hoard,
A low, but spacious farm is seen,
Decking a slope of emerald green:
Nearer, between that tree-topt hill
And the now slowly turning mill,
Winds a level chalky road,
So hard, no dust can incommode;
There courtiers, swiftly whirling by,
To fashion's gay pavilion hie;

There, sick and well, and youth and age,
Within, without the crouded stage,
Salubrious Brighton haste to thee,
To meet Hygeia in the sea.
But woods and meads profusely flung,
Seem from the azure concave hung,—
Nature's rich curtain! dropt to hide
From me the ocean's foaming tide;
Yet oft on Fancy's wing I soar,
To view from off the briny shore
The stately vessels, England's pride,
Safe in the port at anchor ride,
Or swiftly with their spreading sails,
Fly before the favoring gales,
To seek for treasures once unknown,
And make each foreign mart our own;
Yet though rich purple clusters rise
Beneath the warmth of southern skies,
Italia, France, nor haughty Spain,
Can rival Britain's golden grain;
Then hail bright fields of ripen'd corn!
Still may your charms this land adorn;
Still may luxuriant Plenty smile,
And Britons boast their fruitful isle.

Nor do those hills of russet sand
Deform the beauty of the land;
Nor do those barren cliffs appear
Or needless, or disgusting here,
That rise like mounts of spotless snow,
High o'er the plenteous vale below;
A pigmy Alps, with hoary head,
Reclin'd on summer's verdant bed,
Richly fringed with tufted trees,
That scarce admit the passing breeze,
And form a close impervious shade,
Left Phœbus' beams the embroidery fade,
Where nature, to display her power,
Gives beauty to the simplest flower.