Classic Poem

Beneath a beech's bowery shade
Damon in musing mood was laid,
A brook soft-dimpling by his side,
Thus echo, as he sung, reply'd.

‘Sweet is the breath of rosy morn,
‘Soft melody the sky-lark trills,
‘Bright are the dew-drops on the thorn,
‘Fresh are the zephyrs on the hills,
‘Pure are the fountains in the vale below,
‘And fair the flowers that on their borders blow:
‘Yet neither breath of roseate morn,
‘Nor wild notes which the sky-lark trills,
‘Nor dew-drops glittering on the thorn,
‘Nor the fresh zephyrs of the hills,
‘Nor streams that musically-murmuring flow,
‘Nor flowers that on their mossy margins grow,
‘Can any joy suggest
‘But to the temper'd breast,
‘Where virtue's animating ray
‘Illumines every golden day,
‘Beams on the mind, and makes all nature gay.’