Classic Poem

Ye airs of sunny spring, that softly blow
With whisp'ry breathings o'er the grasses blade;
Ye grass-bespangling flow'rs—too soon to fade—
That now with gemlike brightness round me grow;
Ye saplings small and green-bough'd trees, that throw
Your waving shadows on the sunny glade;
Thou lowland stream, whose winding waters flow
Like molten silver to the hoarse cascade:

Give vice the noisy town, and let the great
Ride mighty o'er the earth with pride and pow'r;
Give avarice his gold: but let me flee

Where cold and selfish hearts live not to hate
And scorn. Oh, take me to thy lonely bow'r,
Sweet rural nature! Life is dear for thee.