I

[His Tears to Thamesis.]

SEND, I send here my supremest kiss,
To thee, my silver-footed Thamesis ;
No more shall I reiterate thy strand,
Whereon so many stately structures stand:
Nor in the summer's sweeter evenings go,
To bathe in thee, as thousand others do:
No more shall I along thy chrystal glide,
In barge, with boughs and rushes beautified,
With soft-smooth virgins for our chaste disport,
To Richmond, Kingston, and to Hampton-Court:
Never again shall I with finny oar

Put from or draw unto the faithful shore,
And landing here, or safely landing there,
Make way to my beloved Westminster,
Or to the golden Cheap-side, where the earth

Of Julia Herrick gave to me my birth.

May all clean nymphs and curious water dames
With swan-like state float up and down thy streams;

No drought upon thy wanton waters fall

To make them lean, and languishing at all:

No ruffling winds come hither to disease

Thy pure and silver-wristed Naiades.

Keep up your state, ye streams; and as ye spring, Never make sick your banks by surfeiting.

Grow young with tides, and though I see ye never,

Receive this vow; so fare ye well for ever.

ROBERT HERRICK.

[From To Phillis.]

THE silver-shedding streams

Shall gently melt thee into dreams.

HERRICK.

[From Paradise Lost, Book iv.]

SOUTHWARD through Eden went a river large,

Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill
Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown
That mountain, as his garden-mould, high raised
Upon the rapid current, which, through veins
Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn,
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
Watered the garden; thence united fell
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
Which from his darksome passage now appears,
And now, divided into four main streams,
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
And country whereof here needs no account;
But rather to tell how, if Art could tell

How, from that sapphire fount the crispèd brooks,
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,

With mazy error under pendent shades
Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed
Flowers worthy of Paradise.

JOHN MILTON.

[From Paradise Lost, Book viii.]

ABOUT me round I saw

Liquid lapse of murmuring streams.

MILTON.

[From A Vacation Exercise.]

RIVERS, arise: whether thou be the son

Of utmost Tweed, or Ouse, or gulfy Dun,

Or Trent, who, like some earth-born giant, spreads
His thirty arms along the indented meads,
Or sullen Mole, that runneth underneath,
Or Severn swift, guilty of maiden's death,
Or rocky Avon, or of sedgy Lea,

Or coaly Tyne, or ancient hallowed Dee,

Or Humber loud, that keeps the Scythian's name,
Or Medway smooth, or royal-towered Thame.

MILTON.

Y

[From Cooper's Hill.]

My eye, descending from the Hill, surveys

Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys strays;

Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons,

By his old sire, to his embraces runs,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity;

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold,
His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring;
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,

Like mothers which their infants overlay ;

Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave,

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave;
No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil;

But godlike his unwearied bounty flows,

First loves to do, then loves the good he does ;
Nor are his blessings to his banks confin'd,

But free and common as the sea or wind;
When he, to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying tow'rs,

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours,
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,
Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants;
So that to us no thing, no place is strange,

While his fair bosom is the world's exchange.

O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.

SIR JOHN DENHAM.

[From Wealth, or the Woody.] LIKE Nilus swelling frae his unkend Head,

Frae Bank to Brae o'erflows ilk Rig and Mead, Instilling lib'ral store of genial sap,

Whence sun-burn'd Gypsies reap a plenteous Crap:
Thus flows our sea, but with this Diff'rence wide,
But ance a Year their River heaves his Tide;
Ours aft ilk Day t' enrich the Common Weal,
Bangs o'er its Banks, and dings Ægyptian Nile.
ALLAN RAMSAY.

To the River Lodon.

H! what a weary race my feet have run,

AH!

Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun :

Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive Memory traces back the round,
Which fills the varied interval between ;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure,

Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd,

From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.

THOMAS WARTON.