Classic Poem

Butterflies to Haga faring,
When the frosts and fogs are spent,
Find the woods their home preparing,
Flower-enwrought their pleasure-tent.
Insects from their winter trances
Newly wakened by the sun
O'er the marsh hold festal dances
And along the dock-leaves run.

Haga, on thy bosom dozes
Many a plot of verdure brave,
And the snowy swan reposes
Proudly on thy rippling wave.
In the woods a distant clamor
Comes reichoed faint and fine:
From the quarry sounds the hammer,
Axes ring mid birch and pine.

See the little naiads flashing;
Golden horns they lift in air!
Cool cascades are blithely dashing
O'er the heights of Solna fair.
Statues greet the eyes that gaze there
Down the arching forest aisles;
Wheels go by, a dust they raise there —
Kindly then the peasant smiles.

Ah, what joy beyond repeating
Through that lovely park to rove,
To receive the fair one's greeting
While a monarch's eyes approve!
Each of his most gracious glances
Draws the tear of gratitude —
Ay, that royal look entrances
E'en the surly and the rude.