Classic Poem

BURSTAL, IN THENFOUR SEASONS.

How sweet it were, methinks, to sojourn here
And watch the seasons in their changeful flight:
To see the Spring bedeck with wild-flowers bright
The valley and those swelling uplands near;
To mark the Summer in her blithe career
Bursting in full luxuriance on the sight
And matron Autumn re-assert her right
To crown with harvest-boons the circling year.
Nor undelightful would it be, I ween,
At Christmas here to trim the cottage fire,
Pore o'er the lay or tune the Muse's lyre,
What time rude Winter, with his sterner mien,
In spotless snow array'd the alter'd scene,
And hush'd in stillness all the woodland choir.