Classic Poem

This scene how rich from Thames's side,
While evening-suns their amber beam
Spread o'er the glassy-surfac'd tide,
And midst the masts and cordage gleam;
Blaze on the roofs with turrets crown'd,
And gild green pastures stretch'd around,
And gild the slope of that high ground,
Whose corn-fields bright the prospect bound.

The white sails glide along the shore,
Red streamers on the breezes play,
The boatmen ply the dashing oar,
And wide their various freight convey;
Some, Neptune's hardy thoughtless train,
And some, the careful sons of gain,
And some, the enamour'd nymph and swain,
Listening to music's soothing strain.

But there, while these the sight allure,
Still Fancy wings her flight away
To woods recluse, and vales obscure,
And streams that solitary stray;
To view the pine-grove on the hill,
The rocks that trickling springs distil,
The meads that quivering aspins fill,
Or alders crowding o'er the rill.

And where the trees unfold their bloom,
And where the banks their floriage bear,
And all effuse a rich perfume
That hovers in the soft calm air;
The hedge-row path to wind along,
To hear the bleating fleecy throng,
To hear the skylark's airy song,
And throstle's note so clear and strong.

But say, if there our steps were brought,
Would these their power to please retain?
Say, would not restless roving thought
Turn back to busy scenes again?
O strange formation of the mind!
Still though the present fair we find,
Still tow'rds the absent thus inclin'd,
Thus fix'd on objects left behind!