Classic Poem

Up under the wood, where treetips sway
All green, though by skyshine tinted gray;
Above the soft mead, where waters glide,
Here narrow and swift, there slow and wide,
Up there is my house, with rose-trimm'd walls,
By land that up-slopes, and land that falls—
On over the mill, and up on the ridge,
Up on the ledge above the bridge.

The wind, as it comes along the copse,
Is loud with the rustling trees' high tops;
The wind from beyond the brook is cool,
And sounds of the ever-whirling pool:
Up there at my house, with well-trimmed thatch,
And lowly-wall'd lawn, and arched hatch,
Beside the tall trees where blackbirds sing—
Over the rock, and water spring.

And when from the north the wind blows cold,
The trees are my screen, a hundred fold;
And wind that may blow from southern skies,
Through quivering limetrees softly sighs,
And out in the west a tow'r stands gray,
And hills on the eastward fade away—
From under the wood, above the mill,
Over the stream, below the hill.

As people along the road go by,
They suddenly turn their heads awry,
They slacken their canter to a trot,
With ‘Oh! what a pretty little spot!’
They take for their trot a walking pace,
With ‘Heigh! what a charming little place!’
They lift up their hands with wond'ring look,
With ‘Lo! what a lovely little nook!’

They see my laburnums' chains of gold,
And pallid blue lilacflow'rs unfold;
They look at my fuchsias' hanging bells,
And calceolarias' yellow shells,
And cups of my lilies, white as snow,
And pinks as they hang their blossoms low;
And then at my roses, fine and fair
As ever have sweeten'd summer air.

They look at my rose with open eyes,
With ‘Oh! what a handsome shape and size;’
They put up their hand to breast or hair,
To fancy they put my rose up there;
They put up a leaf below the nose,
To fancy they smell my fine moss-rose;
With back-looking face they go their ways,
With ‘Oh! that's the place that people praise.’

The foot-weary man that there may tread
The road, with no place to lay his head,
Will say, as he heaves his sighing breast,
‘How blest is the man with that sweet nest!’
And bachelors fain would own the care
Of sweet little children playing there—
Up under the wood, on Meldon ridge,
Up by the road, from Meldon bridge.