Classic Poem

Sylvan stag, securely play,
'Tis the sportful month of May,
Till her music dies away
Fear no huntsman's hollo;
While the cowslip nods her head,
While the fragrant blooms are shed
O'er the turf which thou dost tread,
None thy traces follow.

In the odours wafted round,
Those that breathe from thee are drowned;
Echo voices not a sound,
Fleet one, to dismay thee;
On the budding beeches browse,
None shall come the deer to rouse;
Scattered leaves and broken boughs
Shall not now betray thee.

Sylvan deer! on branches fed,
'Mid the countless branches bred,
Mimic branches on thy head
With the rest are springing;
Smooth them on the russet bark,
Or the stem of cypress dark,
From whose top the woodland lark
Soars to heaven singing.