Classic Poem

Where Surrey's favourite hill o'erlooks the Thames,
And Twickenham's flowery meads fair maids invite,
The patient angler sits from morn till night
Pursuing his mild sport; and who condemns
His quiet pastime in the summer air?
He is the Muses' warbling son, and they
Ne'er suffer unbeguiled to pass away
The hours of him who is their special care.
For him the shade of Thomson shall arise;
For him sad Eloisa's Bard shall sing;
The fields for him assume their gayest dyes;
From every lily shall a Naiad spring;
For him old Faunus' voice shall cheer the skies,
And Nymphs and Dryads dance in festive ring!