Classic Poem

Oh , Maid of the Tweed, wilt thou travel with me,
To the wilds of South-Africa, far o'er the sea,
Where the blue mountains tow'r in the beautiful clime,
Hung round with huge forests all hoary with time?
I'll build thee a cabin beside the clear fount,
Where it leaps into light from the heart of the mount,
Ere yet its fresh footsteps have found the fair meads
Where among the tall lilies the antelope feeds.

Our home, like a bee-hive, shall stand by the wood
Where the lory and turtle-dove nurse their young brood,
And the golden-plumed paroquet waves his bright wings
From the bough where the green-monkey gambols and swings:
With the high rocks behind us, the valley before,
The hills on each side with our flocks speckled o'er,
And the far-sweeping river oft glancing between,
With the heifers reclined on its margins of green.

There, rich in the wealth which a bountiful soil
Pours forth to repay the glad husbandman's toil;
Content with the Present, at peace with the Past,
No cloud on the Future our joys to o'ercast;
Like our brave Scottish sires in the blithe Olden Day,
The heart we'll keep young though the temples wax grey;
While love's Olive Plants round our table shall rise —
Engrafted with Hopes that bear fruit in the Skies.