Classic Poem

Born among the boulders,
In Cornwallia's clime
An untutor'd poet
Pass'd his life in rhyme,
Piped among the thickets
By the crosses grey,
Until forty summers
Led him on his way.

Sang he of the streamlet
And the clinking mill,
The rich lodes of copper
Running in the hill,
Taught by the winds that whisper
Round the peasant's door,
And the tales that cluster
On the weird moor.

Every feature pleased him
Of his native place,
Bank, and brake, and burrow,
With poetic grace;
And the more he mark'd her,
Wandering with his quill,
Ever more he lov'd her,
As a poet will.

Thus he saw Cornwallia
Like a seraph shine,
Until forty summers
Made her half divine.
Never, never had he
Left her hillocks low;
Never, never did he
O'er her boundaries go.

Then the steam-horse bore him
One sky-pleasant day
Out of old Cornwallia,
Many miles away;
Onward, onward ever,
Charm'd with sight and sound,
Till his feet at Stratford
Press'd the classic ground.

Then again return'd he
To his native place,
Where his wite and children
Joy'd to see his face.
Lake and landscape charm'd him,
Wood and waterfall;
Yet he knows Cornwallia
Is the best of all.