THE RIVER CHERWELL.

By William Lisle Bowles

Cherwell! how pleased along thy willowed edge

Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began

To tinge the distant turret's golden fan,

Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge!

And now reposing on thy banks once more,

I bid the lute farewell, and that sad lay

Whose music on my melancholy way

I wooed: beneath thy willows waving hoar,

Seeking a while to rest — till the bright sun

Of joy return; as when Heaven's radiant Bow

Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below:

Whate'er betide, yet something have I won

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,

Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.