In the calm and the beauty. Like thee, noble river, like thee! Let our lives in beginning and ending Fair in their gathering be, And great in the time of their spending. Isabella Craig Knox. I UP THE RIVER. DEARLY love this London, this royal northern And am up in all its history, to Brutus and to Lud; done, That the houses had more gable-ends, and the river less of mud. And often, as I wander in the fine new squares, I ponder The reason why men like to live in long white plastered rows, And sigh for our old streets, like those across the Channel yonder, At Bruges or at Antwerp, such as everybody knows. But our river still is beautiful, rejoicing in the quaintest Old corners for a painter (till the new quays are begun). See there the line of distant hills, and where the blue is faintest, The brown sails of the barges lie slanting in the sun. Here's a steamer now we're in it one is passing every minute; There's the palace of St. Stephen, which they call dream in stone"; But I think, beyond all question, it was in an indigestion That the architect devised those scrolls whose language is unknown. Now we pass the Lollards' Tower, as we glide upon our journey, And think of Wicliffe's ashes scattered wide across the sea; Pass the site of ancient Ranelagh, which (cide Fanny · Burney) Brings up the tales we read at school to Laurence and to me. At last we get to Putney, and we rush across the river, The gentle rural river, flowing softly through the grass; And we walk more fast than ever, for our nerves are in a quiver, Till we mount the hill of Wimbledon, and see the shadows pass Athwart the budding chestnuts, and clear brown water lying, Filled with the click of insects, among the yellowing gorse; Here there is no human creature, and the only living feature Of all this glorious common is that idle old white horse. The sun is sinking in the west, let's leave the wood behind us, Across the road, and up the steps, see here is Richmond Park; Let's plunge amid the ferny glades, where only deer can find us, It wants an hour to sunset yet, and two before it's dark. * * * * There, now we're on the terrace; see, this regal Thames is winding Among its poplared islands with a slow majestic pace; We should see the towers of Windsor if the sun were not so blinding, It casts a glow on all the trees, and a glory on your face. Golden is the landscape, and the river, and the people, The cedar-stems are molten now the sun is going down; Let's keep the vision as it is; the clock in yonder steeple Reminds us it is getting late, and we're miles away ON A GROTTO NEAR THE THAMES AT TWICKENHAM. THOU HOU who shalt stop where Thames' translucent wave Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave, Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, Unpolished gems no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow: Approach. Great nature studiously behold! And eye the mine without a wish for gold. Approach: but aweful! Lo the Egerian grott, Where, nobly-pensive, St. John sate and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's soul. Let such, such only, tread the sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor. Alexander Pope. TO LADY FANE ON HER GROTTO AT BASILDON, 1746. YLIDE smoothly on, thou silver Thames, GLID Where Fane has fixed her calm retreat; Go pour thy tributary streams, To lave imperial Thetis' feet. There when in flowery pride you come The glories of its flattered lords; What pomp adorns the Gallic coast, Richard Graves. THE GROTTO. NAY, Father Thames, whose gentle pace SAY, Gives leave to view what beauties grace |