Classic Poem

Down in the bosom of a mossy dale,
Thro' which a narrow streamlet winds its way,
There towers abrupt a rugged, rocky mound,
By Nature's sportive hand grotesquely reared,
And quaintly clad with shrubs and stunted trees.
'Tis said that native chiefs, in olden time,
Have oft assembled here their chosen bands,
And, as in tower impregnable, sustain'd
The furious shock and fell assault of foes.

And still the place retains the name and trace
Of war's rude art; and there the labouring hind,
Whilst, cheerful, singing at his peaceful toil,
Has oft upturn'd the relics of the past, —
Old, rusty, time-worn implements of war.

To this lone mound, in autumn's evening hour,
Oft would I wander forth with one belov'd, —
With one whose soul could sympathise with mine,
And share the beauties of the varied scene; —

And we would hold sweet converse as we sat,
And talk of " deeds of days of other years, "
When this wild spot, so peacefully serene,
Re-echoed to the tread of mailed men,
The prance and neighing of the barbed steed,
The trumpet's clang and all the din of war.