Classic Poem

T HOMSON ! this quiet stream the song of thought
Oft in thy bosom reared, and as I steal
Along its banks, they to my gaze reveal
The pictures by thy truthful pencil wrought;
No rash intruder on the rural spot
I seem, but in that glowing fervour share,
Which on their page thy far-fam'd " Seasons " bear;
Nor honoured less is Nature, nor less sought
Her still retreats, while with my wand I fling
O'er Eden's pools the well-dissembling fly,
Creating in the Mind's fantastic eye
Castles of Indolence. The sudden spring
Of a huge trout assails their air-built walls,
And to the untrench'd earth each hollow fabric falls.