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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
229
XX. TO THE THAMES.
River, whose charge is from the winds and skyThe Imperial City's agitated ear
To soothe with murmur low and ceaseless cheer,
Do thy great, pious task perpetually:
But add a warning voice more deep and high:
Borne down from bridge to bridge in smooth career
Tell her to whom the pomp of gold is dear,
Of Tyre that fell; of Fortune's perfidy!
Tell her, whilst on thy broad and glimmering mirror
The shadows of her turrets tremble and slide,
How brief the impress of victorious Pride,
How nearly Triumph is allied to Terror.
Demons their nests in ship-mast forests hide—
By nobleness, not gold, are Nations deified.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |