Cherwell, how pleased along thy willowed edge Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan, Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge! And now reposed on thy lorn banks once more, I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay Whose music on my melancholy way I wooed, amid thy waving willows hoar, Seeking awhile to rest -- till the bright sun Of joy returns, as when Heaven's beauteous bow Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below: -- Whate'er betide, yet something have I won Of solace, that may bear me on serene, 'Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene. |