Classic Poem

The scene which most delighted me in youth
Was round me still — A broad and winding lane,
Its natural carpeting, of emerald
'Broidered with flowers of a thousand hues —
The wild rose clustering with the jessamine,
In beautiful confusion, quite shut out
The world and its 'entanglements — above,
The loveliest of the southern forest, formed
Meet roof for such a temple, from the oak
Rejoicing in its never-fading green,
And huge fantastic limbs — to the slight myrtle
Studded with bright blossoms — here and there
A lofty sycamore would raise its head,
Most fearful of the woodland, last to trust
To the soft wooings of the smiling spring,
And first to cast its foliage to the ground,
Before the breath of winter — but when high
The sun rides in his summer majesty,
Proudly the laggard Sycamore puts on
Its garniture of silvery green, and waves
Its crisp leaves to the zephyrs, with a sound
Like murmurs of far waters — It was summer,
A Carolinian summer, — when the eye
Shrinks dazzled from the blue of the clear Heavens,
Unless, as now, it falls upon the sight,
Flickering the waving verdure — Nor did lack
Sweet music to the magic of the scene.
The little crimson-breasted nonpareil
Was there, its tiny feet scarce bending down
The silken tendril, that he lighted on
To pour his love-notes, — and in russet coat
Most homely, like true genius bursting forth
In spite of adverse fortune, a full choir
Within himself, the merry mock-bird sate
Filling the air with melody — and at times
In the rapt fervour of his sweetest song
His quivering form would spring into the sky
In spiral circles, as if he would catch
New powers from kindred warblers in the clouds.