Classic Poem

I.

O H ! who that feels the joyous throb, which the angler's bosom stirreth,
To the flowery stream-side hieing,
When vernal winds are flying,
Would envy all that Fortune with her fickle hand conferreth?

II.

Nor in cities, nor with courtiers, nor within the kingly palace,
So flowing in its measure
Is the rife cup of our pleasure,
As when with wand and pannier we tread the daisied valleys.

III.

Would we give the grey lark's carol for the cold lip-uttered chorus,
Or heaven's ample covering,
Where the minstrel bird is hovering,
For the lamp-lit roofs that elevate their glimmering arches o'er us?

IV.

Would we give our wild free rambles for the reveller's heated prison?
Or with the false and fawning
Consume a summer's dawning,
Rather than greet the joyful sun from his couch of clouds arisen?

V.

Would we give our water-sceptre for the staves of state and splendour,
Or exchange the angler's calling,
On the shady river trolling,
For all the lesser pleasaunces that pomp or power can tender?

VI.

Though bewitching are the hues that warp the world's every folly,
No longer they invite us,
While truer joys delight us
By the stream-side as we roam, below the hawthorn and the holly.