Classic Poem

TO " FRIDOLIN'S PLEASURE-GARDEN "

My muse dwelleth not on Parnassus,
Her home is on Purse-Maker's Nest.
Like sunset the cheek of the lass is,
When eve soothes the valley to rest.

May poets be crowned but with laurel!
May not Dalecarlia spare
A wreath with which no one need quarrel
To lay on a bard's flowing hair?

Your Pegasus, haughty of form, is
A noble and excellent steed,
But one I'd prefer in a storm is
A colt of our own mountain breed.

With iron spurs gieaming and jangling
We stumble through thicket and brake,
Like the grouse-cock my lyre is a-twangling,
And oh, what a clatter we make!

For the seven-hued bridge, o'er which passes
The bard to the halls of the blest,
Gilds the myrtle-clad heights of Parnassus,
And the rowans of Purse-Maker's Nest.