Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou soft-flowing Avon, I call thee divine,
And often in thought on thy green banks recline:
Thy wave ripples near me, thy cool zephyrs play,
And of Shakspeare I dream, all entranc'd by his lay,
River Avon.

The Nine Muses haunt thee, and sing on thy shore,
And ever shall haunt thee, 'till Time be no more:
The Graces will never away from thy marge;
Forsaking Olympus, they dance here at large,
River Avon.

The Nymphs of the Forest stray down to thy brink,
And the brimm'd Fountain-Maids, of thy Poet to think:
Nay, Ocean's fair daughters will wander to thee,
The birth-place and tomb of thy Shakspeare to see,
River Avon.

Pan walks through thy meads, and his Satyrs here dance,
But the Nymphs fly away from his passionate glance;
The shepherds oft hear him, thy willows beside,
When Hesper is beaming with love on thy tide,
River Avon.

Nay, Proteus forsaking his dolphin-tail'd herd,
Not seldom from under thy water is heard:
The cattle, by whom thy blithe meadows are shorn,
Start away in amaze at that sea-toned horn,
River Avon.

Then smooth be thy waters, thy willows be green,
For Shakspeare here slumbers, the king of our Scene;
And thy mould softly pillow his dear-loved head,
Whereon the bright blessing of Heaven be shed,
River Avon.

For his heart was as gentle, as keen was his wit,
And one line, which he breath'd, we can never forget,
While the fountains shall flow to the pearl-breeding main,
We never shall look on his likeness again,
River Avon.

The utmost I ask, is to dwell on thy shore—
When my sight shall grow dim, and my head shall be hoar,
The page of life clos'd, lay me down by his side,
Beneath the fresh turf, which is wash'd by thy tide,
River Avon.

For there, I persuade me, true peace may be found:
Where Shakspeare reposes, 'tis all hallow'd ground;
No Spirit there wanders, or thing that's unblest,
But the fay-haunted moon sweetly shines on his rest,
River Avon.

And there thou dost murmur, and linger with love,
And feed'st with thy fountains each meadow and grove;
Of Meles, of Mincius, we now think not more;
All the Muses for ever shall dance on thy shore,
River Avon.

While pale lilies shall droop o'er the imaging wave,
And the cuckoo shall utter the same mocking stave,
While the nightingale chant, the coy angel of Spring,
He of Poets, and thou of all Rivers art King,
River Avon.

Then take thou these flowers, fresh pluck'd from thy meads,
And my music I breathe through thy own native reeds:
Thou mayst find many Poets more learned than me,
But never a Poet more faithful to thee,
River Avon.