 | Poems |  |
67
Weybridge
Queen village of the Bridge upon the Wey,Dim grow thy beauties as we number them;—
Saint George's Hill, thy plumèd diadem;
Thy meadow girdle; all thy green array;
The spire, thy sceptre, seen so far away
Along the river that with pearly hem
Borders thy robe, from barges as they stem
The current, and from boats that idly stray.
As from that reeking city in the East
Black hazes on the landscape oft alight,
Like hint of poisoned goblets at a feast,
So doth a foul suburban parasite
Thy field and forest, with fermenting yeast
Of spawning speculation, blear and blight.
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