Classic Poem

To own her sway the woods were proud,
The solemn forest, wreathed and old;
To her the plumed harvests bowed
Their rustling ranks of gold.

Mantled in majesty complete,
She walked among her flocks and herds;
Where'er she moved, with voices sweet,
Sang all her laureate birds.

All happy sounds waved softly near,
With perfume from the fields of dew;
From every hill, bold chanticleer
His silver clarion blew.

The bees her honey-harvest reaped,
The fields were murmurous with their glee;
And loyal to her hives, key heaped
Her waxen treasury.

All pleasures round her loved to press,
To sing their sweetest madrigals; —
She never knew the weariness
Which dwells in grander halls.