Classic Poem

Rude architect, rich instinct's natural taste
Is thine by heritage. Thy little mounds,
Bedecking furze-clad heath and rushy waste
Betraced with sheep-tracks, shine like pleasure grounds.
No rude inelegance thy work confounds,
But scenes of picturesque and beautiful
Lie mid thy little hills of cushioned thyme,
On which the cow-boy, when his hands are full
Of wild flowers, leans upon his arm at rest,
As though his seat were feathers. When I climb
Thy little fragrant mounds, I feel thy guest,
And hail neglect thy patron, who contrives
Waste spots for thee on nature's quiet breast,
Where taste admires and thy still labour thrives.