Classic Poem

Morn rose at last above the eastern chain
Of hills, that mark the river's winding way;
Connecticut, that stole beneath the plain,
Gave to the air her misty mantle grey;
And bared her silver bosom to the day.
Up sprang the black bird from her dewy nest
And warbled sweet aloft her early lay;
While hark'ning puss his playful mate caress'd,
And Summer smiled around, in all her verdure dress'd.