Classic Poem

Fridolin dances free,
And full of sweet wine is he,—
Of the berry's juice, and the wheat-field's dower,
And the whirl of the waltz-melodie.
With the tails of his long coat over his arm
He dances full many a partner warm,
Till she leans on his breast like a drooping flower,
Overcome by his manly charm.

Fridolin dances free,
He is filled with the memory
Of his sire and grandsire who danced there long
Before to that old melodie.
Ye sleep now, ye sires, on the festival night,
And stilled is the hand that could fiddle with might,
For your life—like your day—is a murmuring song
Which echoes a wistful delight.

But Fridolin dances free,—
Your son, and a brave lad he;
He can talk in the peasant style with a churl,
And in Latin to men of degree.
His scythe goes sharp through the harvest's gold,
He is proud of the store that his granaries hold,
Toward the moon's red saucepan he tosses his girl
Like a man of your stalwart mould.