Classic Poem

Thus the poor peasant mourns, when homeward bound,
(As the dank eve-dew settles on the ground,)
His decent cottage canopy'd in trees,
One ruddy blaze, with horrent hair, he sees,
Each mouldering fragment of domestic care
Pausing he-marks, ineffable despair!
Still o'er the little couch, the table's frame,
The beachen seat, pursues the greedy flame,
Nor from the spot averts his gaze forlorn
Till high in air the native hut is torn.

O! ne'er let me forget the summer shade,
Where studious thro' it's fragrant copse I stray'd,
Where slow I wander'd thro' the waving bow'r,
When the leaves bent beneath a stilly show'r,
And woodland eccho, soften'd to a sigh,
Scarce caught a sound, unwilling to reply.