Classic Poem

From cloud-swept Snowgate, Dearne! now swift, now slow,
Thou comest, playing still a busy tune;
And while rich woodbines braid the locks of June,
And wild hedge roses in her bosom glow,
That tune is sweet. On, sky-fed Wanderer, go!
Waste not at monkish Burton this bright hour;
Pass Darfield's meads, and many a blossom'd bower;
Bid Wath good night! and sleep at Conisbro,
In Don's cold arms. Here, scarcely heard to lisp,
Thy waters bask in evening's purply gold,
And round thy lilies—fresh, blush-ting'd, and crisp—
Linger, as loth to leave this loveliest scene—
Bard of the Rustic Wreath! my tale is told;
I stand again, where thou hast often been.