While thy low murmurs soothed his pensive ear;
And still the poet consecrates the stream.
Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side,
The first-born violets of the year shall spring;
And in thy hazels, bending o'er the tide,
The earliest nightingales delight to sing:
While kindred spirits pitying shall relate
Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate.

Charlotte Smith.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE ARUN.

HEN latest autumn spreads her evening veil,

WHEN

And the gray mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs

Through the half leafless wood that breathes the gale.
For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies
As of night-wanderers who their woes bewail.
Here by his native stream, at such an hour,
Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet
And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind!
O Melancholy, such thy magic power

That to the soul these dreams are often sweet
And soothe the pensive visionary mind.

Charlotte Smith.

Avon, the River (Upper).

FLOW

TO THE AVON.

OW on, sweet river! like his verse
Who lies beneath this marble hearse,
Nor wait beside the churchyard wall
For him who cannot hear thy call.

Thy playmate once; I see him now
A boy with sunshine on his brow,
And hear in Stratford's quiet street
The patter of his little feet.

I see him by thy shallow edge
Wading knee-deep amid the sedge;
And lost in thought, as if thy stream
Were the swift river of a dream.

He wonders whitherward it flows;
And fain would follow where it goes,
To the wide world, that shall erelong
Be filled with his melodious song.

Flow on, fair stream! That dream is o'er;
He stands upon another shore;

A vaster river near him flows,
And still he follows where it goes.

Anonymous.

THE AVON.

THE Avon to the Severn runs,

THE

The Severn to the sea,

And Wickliffe's dust shall spread abroad,

Wide as the waters be.

Anonymous.

Avon, the River (Lower).

THE EBB-TIDE.

LOWLY thy flowing tide.

SLOW

Came in, old Avon! Scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood-side, Perceive its gentle rise.

With many a stroke and strong

The laboring boatmen upward plied their oars; Yet little way they made, though laboring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlabored boat falls rapidly along;
The solitary helmsman sits to guide,
And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks, that lay

So silent late, the shallow current roars;

Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way,
Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon! I gaze, and know

The lesson emblemed in thy varying way:
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.

Kingdoms which long have stood,

And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high Fortune's flood They ebb to ruin fast.

Thus like thy flow appears

Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage; Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years

Then hasten to old age!

Robert Southey.

FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE RIVER AVON.

ENTER

INTER this cavern, Stranger! Here, awhile Respiring from the long and steep ascent, Thou mayst be glad of rest, and haply too Of shade, if from the summer's westering sun Sheltered beneath this beetling vault of rock. Round the rude portal clasping its rough arms, The antique ivy spreads a canopy,

From whose gray blossoms the wild bees collect In autumn their last store. The Muses love This spot; believe a Poet who hath felt

Their visitation here. The tide below,
Rising or refluent, scarcely sends its sound
Of waters up; and from the heights beyond,
Where the high-hanging forest waves and sways,
Varying before the wind its verdant hues,
The voice is music here. Here thou mayst feel
How good, how lovely, Nature! And when, hence
Returning to the city's crowded streets,

Thy sickening eye at every step revolts

From scenes of vice and wretchedness, reflect

That Man creates the evil he endures.

Robert Southey.

Bala-sala.

AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.

BROKEN in fortune, but in mind entire

And sound in principle, I seek repose
Where ancient trees this convent-pile enclose,
In ruin beautiful. When vain desire
Intrudes on peace, I pray the Eternal Sire
To cast a soul-subduing shade on me,

A gray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee;

A shade, — but with some sparks of heavenly fire Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note