MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THOUGHTS OF THE AVON,
ON THE 28TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1817-
It is the loveliest day that we have had This lovely month, sparkling and full of cheer ; The sun nas a sharp eye, yet kind and glad ; Colours are doubly bright : all things appear Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere; And through the lofty air the white clouds go, As on their way to some celestial show.
The banks of Avon must look well to-day ; A utumn is there in all his glory and treasure ; The river must run bright ; the ripples play Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure ; The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure ; And the rich orchards in their sunniest robes Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.
And why must I be thinking of the pride Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest To sing in here, though by the houses' side? As if 1 could not in a minute rest In leafy fields, quiet, and self-possest, Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks, On t'other, London with its wealth of books ?
TO T. L. H 133
it is not that I envy autumn there, Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none ; Nor yet that in its all-productive air Was born Humanity's divinest son, That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one — ■ Shakspeare ; nor yet, oh no — that here I miss Souls not unworthy to be named with his.
No ; but it is, that on this very day, And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower, Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,* Was born the lass that I love more and more ; A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store, Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core ; An eye for art : a nature, that of yore Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore, When in the golden age one tune they bore ; Marian, — who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er.
TO T. L. H.
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNE-rf,
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise.
- Pershore, or Pearshore, on the Avon ; so named probably
from its abundance of pears.
