Classic Poem

Under the vernal tents of shadowy trees,—
A druid depth of oaken solitude,
The home of wild flowers and the haunt of bees,
The native vale of many a minstrel brood,—
There ran a stream in its bewildering mood
Of song and silence and low whispering trance;
And streamlike paths went winding through the wood
From rock to glen, the temples of Romance,
And there were lawns where Mirth might lead her wreathéd dance.

Upon a knoll o'ergrown with mosses sweet,
While dropt the sun adown the afternoon,
A group of maidens made their merry seat,—
June all around and in their hearts was June;
And on their flowery lips the mellow tune
Of early summer; and with fingers fair
Shaking the wingéd spoilers in their swoon
From honey-bells of blossoms bright and rare,
They wove their woodland wreaths and decked each other's hair.

But when they saw me pass between the trees,
Slow making toward the streamlet's yellow sands,
“Come hither, thou new-comer from the seas,
And sing to us fresh songs of foreign lands!”
They cried, and placed a harp into my hands:
And straightway I went stumbling o'er the strings,
As best I could, to answer their demands,—
Like some poor bird that with his trembling wings
Beats at the caging wires, and to his mistress sings.