Classic Poem

RUSTICUS loquitur .

That rock 's his haunt. — There 's not in all our hills
A hunter that can climb with him. He 'll watch
Before the lark is up; and, staff in hand,
For hours stand gazing, by the eagle's nest,
Like one enamour'd of the rising sun.
And then he 'll make his couch beside a rill:
Which, in his fantasy, he strews with shells,
And hangs with garlands of the weedy flowers.
Some think him love-crost; — others, that he deals
With spirits, — for all such seek loneliness:
And yet I think him holy, for he loves
Our convent walls, and many an evening strays
To see the sunset sleeping on its roof
And its old arches; or but turns away
To pore upon its image in the stream;
And then he 'll spread his book upon his knee,
And make a thousand things of beauty, then
He 'll tear the page, and fling it down the wind.
Here 's one of them. — —

STRANGER .

This is Lorraine; or he is not on earth.