Classic Poem

The cumbrous pollards that o'ershade,
Those uplands rough with brakes and thorns,
The green way with its track-worn glade
The solitary grange forlorn,
The lonely pastures wild and drear
The lonely dwellings wide apart,
Are whispering to the fancy's ear
A secret strain that moves the heart.
No forms of grandeur or of grace,
In the rude landscape you behold,
But their rough lineaments retrace
The features of the times of old:
They speak of customs long retained
Of simple, plain, primeval life,
They mark the little we have gained,
With all our study, toil and strife;
Such England was to Shakespeare's eyes,
So Chaucer viewed her as he roved,
In russet weeds of rustic guise,
In homelier beauty more beloved.
Our ancient halls have left the land,
Turrets and towers have passed away,
Arcades and porticoes were planned
And these again have had their day:
Impatient, peevish wealth recalls
The forms which she defaced before,
Unthrifty sires destroyed the halls,
Which modern prodigals restore;
Confounding England, Rome, and Greece,
Our antient and our modern race,
We dislocate with wild caprice
All unities of time and place;
YeThere attended by the Muse
Let harassed Fancy pause awhile
And unpolluted yet peruse
This remnant of our ancient isle.