Classic Poem

My soul goes often wandering to your glooms,
And rests beneath your shadow,—often dwells
My spirit in your silence, often tells
Over your opening glades their mingled blooms.
How, like a vein of silver, steals along
The mountain brook 'mid ferns and brakes and flowers;
And how, when all is still in calmer hours,
Comes floating o'er the hills some artless song!

Low lies yon narrow vale, and there it strays,
The truant stream, to either wooded steep,
As if to kiss its mossy foot, and plays
Now over pebbly shallows, and now deep
Rests in a sheeted pool, while opening through
The wide plain melts in soft and shadowy blue.