River of England, your green banks no arméd feet,

thank God!

No hostile hosts, no stranger ranks for centuries past have trod;

O, may no foemen ever come, to threat your homes with flames!

But should they come we'll show them soon what hearts are by the Thames.

Flow on in glory, still flow on, O Thames, unto the sea, Through glories gone, through grandeurs here, through greatness still to be:

Through the free homes of England flow, and may yet higher fames,

Still nobler glories, star your course, O my own native

Thames!

William C. Bennett.

L

THE THAMES.

ET the Rhine be blue and bright
In its path of liquid light,

Where the red grapes fling a beam
Of glory on the stream;
Let the gorgeous beauty there
Mingle all that's rich and fair;
Yet to me it ne'er could be
Like that river great and free,

The Thames! the mighty Thames !

Though it bear no azure wave,

Though no pearly foam may lave,

Or leaping cascades pour
Their rainbows on its shore;

Yet I ever loved to dwell
Where I heard its gushing swell,
And never skimmed its breast
But I warmly praised and blest

The Thames! the mighty Thames!

Can ye find in all the world

A braver flag unfurled

Than that which floats above

The stream I sing and love?
O, what a burning glow

Has thrilled my breast and brow,
To see that proud flag come

With glory to its home,

The Thames! the mighty Thames !

Did ribs more firm and fast

Ere meet the shot or blast

Than the gallant barks that glide
On its full and steady tide?
Would ye seek a dauntless crew
With hearts to dare and hands to do?

You'll find the foe proclaims

They are cradled on the Thames;

The Thames! the mighty Thames!

They say the mountain child
Oft loves its torrent wild
So well, that should he part
He breaks his pining heart;

He grieves with smothered sighs
Till his wearying spirit dies;
And so I yearn to thee,

Thou river of the free,

My own, my native Thames!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly, -
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Eliza Cook.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed,
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;

But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery

Swift to be hurled,

Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!