Classic Poem

Of ancient streams presume no more to tell,
The fam'd castalian or pierian well;
SKUYLKIL superior, must those springs confess,
As Pensilvania yields to Rome or Greece .
More limpid water can no fountain show,
A fairer bottom or a smoother brow.
A painted world its peaceful gleam contains
The heav'nly arch, the bord'ring groves and plains:
Here in mock silver Cynthia seems to roll,
And trusty pointers watch the frozen pole.
Here sages might observe the wandring stars,
And rudest swains commence astrologers.
Along the brink the lonely plover stalks,
And to his visionary fellow talks:
Amid the wave the vagrant blackbird sees,
And tries to perch upon the imag'd trees:
On flying clouds the simple bullocks gaze,
Or vainly reach to crop the shad'wy grass:
From neighb'ring hills the stately horse espies
Himself a feeding, and himself envies:
Hither persu'd by op'ning hounds, the hare
Blesses himself to see a forest near;
The waving shrubs he takes for real wood,
And boldly plunges in the yielding flood.
Here bending willows hem the border round,
There graceful trees the promontory crown,
Whose mingled tufts and outspread arms compose
A shade delightful to the lawrel'd brows.
Here mossy couches tempt to pleasing dreams
The love-sick soul; and ease the weary limbs.
No noxious snake disperses poison here,
Nor screams of night-bird rend the twilight air,
Excepting him, who when the groves are still,
Hums am'rous tunes, and whistles whip poor will;
To hear whose carol, elves in circles trip,
And lovers hearts within their bosoms leap;
Whose savage notes the troubled mind amuse,
Banish despair, and hold the falling dews.
If to the west you turn your ravish'd eyes,
There shaggy hills prop up the bending skies,
And smoaky spires from lowly cots arise;
Tow'rds the northwest the distant mountains wear
In May a green, in June a whit'ning ear,
Or all alive with woolly flocks appear.
Beneath their feet a wide extended plain,
Or rich in cyder, or in swelling grain;
Does to the margin of the water stretch,
Bounded by meadows and a rushy beach.
The rest a motley mixture, hill and dale,
There open fields here mingled woods prevail:
Here lasting oaks, the hope of navies, stand,
There beauteous poplars hide th' unsightly strand:
In autumn there the full-ripe clusters blush
Around the walnut or the hawthorn bush.
Here fruitful orchards bend their aged boughs,
There sweats the reaper, her the peasant mows.
Each smiling month diversifies the view,
Ev'n hoary winter teems with something new:
A milkwhite fleece does then the lawns o'erspread,
The stream becomes a looking-glass indeed.
A polish'd surface spreads across the deep,
O'er which the youth with rapid vigour slip.
But now the groves the gayest liv'ries wear,
How pleas'd, could it be spring throughout the year!
And in these walks eternity be spent,
Atheists would then to immortality consent.
The grateful shifting of the colour'd scene,
The rich embroid'ry of the level green;
The trees, and rusling of the branches there,
The silent whispers of the passing air;
Of falling cataracts the solemn roar,
By murmuring eccho sent from shore to shore,
Mix'd with the musick of the winged choir,
Awake the fancy and the poet's fire.
Here rural Maro might attend his sheep,
And the Maeonian with advantage sleep.
Hither ye bards for inspiration come,
Let ev'ry other fount but this be dumb.
Which way soe'er your airy genius leads,
Receive your model from these vocal shades:
Wou'd you in homely pastoral excel,
Take pattern from the merry piping quail;
Observe the bluebird for a roundelay,
The chatt'ring pie, or ever babling jay:
The plaintive dove the soft love verse can teach,
And mimick thrush to imitators preach.
In Pindar's strain the lark salutes the dawn;
The lyrick robin chirps the ev'ning on:
For poignant satyr mind the mavis well,
And hear the sparrow for a madrigal;
For every verse a pattern here you have,
From strains heroic down to humble stave.
Not Phaebus self, altho' the god of verse,
Could hit more fine, more entertaining airs;
Nor the fair maids who round the fountain sate,
Such artless heavenly music modulate.
Each thicket seems a paradise renew'd,
The soft vibrations fire the moving blood:
Each sense its part of sweet delusion shares,
The scenes bewitch the eye, the song the ears:
Pregnant with scent, each wind regales the smell,
Like cooling sheets th' enwrapping breezes feel.
During the dark, if poets eyes we trust,
These lawns are haunted by some swarthy ghost,
Some indian prince, who fond of former joys,
With bow and quiver thro' the shadow flies;
He can't in death his native groves forget,
But leaves elyzium for his ancient seat.
O happy stream! hadst thou in Grecia flow'd,
The bounteous blessing of some watry god
Thou'dst been; or had some Ovid sung thy rise
Distill'd perhaps from slighted virgins eyes.
Well is thy worth in indian story known,
Thy living lymph and fertile borders shown.
Thy shining roach and yellow bristly breme,
The pick'rel rav'nous monarch of the stream;
The pearch whose back a ring of colours shows;
The horned pout who courts the slimy ooze;
The eel serpentine, some of dubious race;
The tortoise with his golden spotted case;
The hairy musk-rat, whose perfume defies
The balmy odours of arabian spice;
Thy various flocks who shores alternate shun,
Drove by the fowler and the fatal gun.
Young philadelphians know thy pleasures well,
Joys too extravagant perhaps to tell.
Hither oftimes th' ingenious youth repair,
When Sol returning warms the growing year:
Some take the fish with a delusive bait,
Or for the fowl beneath the arbors wait;
And arm'd with fire, endanger ev'ry shade,
Teaching ev'n unfledg'd innocence a dread.
To gratify a nice luxurious taste
How many pretty songsters breath their last:
Spite of his voice they fire the linnet down,
And make the widow'd dove renew his moan.
But some more humane seek the shady gloom,
Taste nature's bounty and admire her bloom:
In pensive thought revolve long vanish'd toil,
Or in soft song the pleasing hours beguile;
What Eden was, by every prospect told,
Strive to regain the temper of that age of gold;
No artful harms for simple brutes contrive,
But scorn to take a being they cannot give;
To leafy woods resort for health and ease,
Not to disturb their melody and peace.