Classic Poem

Oh, turn, cruel, fair one! nor slight a fond youth
Who would woo thee with tenderness, fervor and truth!
Tho' my fortune's but small, yet stern want I'm above,
And I'll swear that no swain is more wealthy in love!

In a shady, white cottage, embosom'd in trees,
Where boughs, lightly waving, invite the cool breeze,
My empire I've fixed, — and full green is my bower,
And pure is the wild brook that runs by my door.

Oh! there let me lead thee! for there shalt thou reign,
The cottage thy palace, the grove thy domain;
With a chaplet of roses and myrtle so green
I'll encircle thy brows, and proclaim thee my queen! —

A green bank shall form thy imperial seat;
And the fruits of each autumn I'll lay at thy feet;
Or on beds of sweet violets shalt thou recline;
And the tributes of spring shall thy temples entwine.

What queen could e'er boast of a tribute so fair?
Of a throne so serene? of a palace so rare?
Could reign more secure, and unrivall'd than thee?
Or could boast of a subject more faithful than me?