Classic Poem

OLD SARUM, IN WILTSHIRE .

Now o'er yon upland lawn, the sun, scarce seen,
 Crimsons the whole horizon in the West;
The distant sheep-bells tinkle from the green,
 As the blythe shepherd drives them to their rest.

Now, along Avon's bank, the whistling boy
 Returns elated with his oxen team;
Deep in the valley sounds the voice of joy,
 And over Salisbury's spire, peeps Luna's beam.

Here, where erst Sarum's glorious city stood,
 Now sober evening holds her tranquil reign;
Here let me “hold high converse” with the good,
 Here learn to pity ev'n the bad and vain.
For idly still, contemplative we rove,
If not the heart to mend, to cherish boundless love.