Classic Poem

Now, Landscape-Maker, that with living trees
Createst Painting! thou should'st hither come,
And here learn how the town-sick heart to please.
Can'st thou not, in thy tiny wild, find room
For a wild lane, that with capricious ease
Shading or brightening self-taught branch or flower,
Will saunter gently to a seated bower?
Or lead thee through a cloudlet of green gloom,
Cheer'd by the music of its hidden rills,
To sudden sunburst? where the hunter's cot
Looks down on rivers, and the distant hills
Climb to the firmament, yet marry not
Their purple to the orange-blaze, that fills
O'er-arching heav'n with pomp,
And peace, and power!