Classic Poem

Spring his gentle beams is flinging
O'er Kasuga's ivy-tangled lea;
To the hills the mists are clinging,
Takamato's heights are ringing
With the nightingale's first melody.

All the court for this entrancing
Hour had yearn'd — oh! might it never end! —
Then upon our chargers prancing,
Gaily side by side advancing,
Through the fields our course we long'd to bend.

Ah! could we have been foreknowing
This accurs'd, unutterable thing,
Then by Sao's waters flowing,
Where the ferns and rushes growing
Line the strand 'mid birds' sweet carolling,

O'er our heads their branches twining,
In the stream we might have lav'd us free:
Now the monarch's law, confining,
Bids us mourn away the shining
Hours of Spring in dark captivity.