THE AVON

Avon — a precious, an immortal name!

Yet is it one that other rivulets bear

Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear

Like this contented, though unknown to Fame:

For great and sacred is the modest claim

Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow;

And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go,

Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame.

But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears,

Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood

Has mixed its current with the limpid flood,

Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears:

Never for like distinction may the good

Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears.