Classic Poem

How stately stand yon pines upon the hill;
How soft the murmurs of that living rill;
And o'er the park's tall paling, scarcely higher,
Peeps the low church and shows the modest spire.
Unnumber'd violets on those banks appear,
And all the first-born beauties of the year;
The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring
The large wild bees upon the labouring wing.
Then comes the summer with augmented pride,
Whose pure small streams along the valley glide;
Her richer flora their brief charms display,
And, as the fruit advances, fall away.
Then shall th'autumnal yellow clothe the leaf,
What time the reaper binds the burden'd sheaf;
Then silent groves denote the dying year,
The morning frost, and noon-tide gossamer;
And all be silent in the scene around--
All, save the distant sea's uncertain sound,
Or here and there the gun, whose loud report
Proclaims to man that death is but his sport.
And then the wintry winds begin to blow;
Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow;
When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue,
Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew;
The aged moss grows brittle on the pale;
The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale;
And every changing season of the year
Stamps on the scene its English character . . .