  Lov’d stream, that meanders along, Where the steps of my infancy stray’d; When first I attun’d the rude song, That nature all artless essay’d. Though thy borders be stripp’d of each tree, That smil’d in their vernal array; Their image still pictures to me, Thy villagers gambolling gay. Nor by fancy shall aught be unseen, While thy fountains flow murmuring by; I have danc’d in the Dance on the green, I have wept with the woe-begun age. Thy blessings how many and rare! Far distant the mildue of health, Where guilt vainly decorates care, And wickedness broods over wealth. The dress of the body and mind, For ages exactly the same: No travel the manners refin’d, And fashion pass’d by as it came. Ah! which of thy sons canst thou boast, Like Maddison, To give to the silver girt coast, The worth that was foreign before! Each language, each humour, his own, All Europe was proud to improve; Whom Belgium sits down to bemoan, Whom Gallia could listening love. Say, when will thou cease to complain? Oh Darwent, thy destiny cries; Far off, on the banks of the Seine, Thy darling, thy Maddison—dies! |
|
