THE VOICE OF THE THAMES.
Leave, dweller in the smoke-bound street,
Your native London's ceaseless noise.
With aching head and weary feet
Turn from the town's delusive joys.
On dusty terrace, grimy square,
A dismal pall seems settling down;
Be not the Season's slave, and dare,
Oh town-bred man, to leave the town.
The town can spare you; it may chance
The Park will fill without your aid;
And still at many a matron's dance
Moist man will whirl with panting maid.
Vast dinners still will be as slow,
The night will still be turned to day,
And all the giddy round will go
As wild and well with you away.
But here the days are passing fair,
The sun shines bright, the leaves are green;
Cool on your forehead breathes the air,
The very smoke seems fresh and clean.
And over all the winding miles,
Where erst his foaming torrents ran,
The clear, calm Thames breaks forth in smiles
Of welcome to the London man.
Bend to your oars, away, away!
Then rest awhile, or deftly steer
Where topped with rainbow clouds of spray
The waters tumble o'er the weir.
Nor scorn the man whom, moored for hours,
Nor failure daunts nor jeers affront,
Who sits, unheeding sun or showers,
A fishless angler in a punt.
Then, when at eve the ringdove's call
Is hushed upon the wooded hill,
And slowly lengthening shadows fall
On field and stream, and all is still,
Drift homewards, thanking Heaven that made
You free to dream awhile your dream
In this fair scene of sun and shade,
On gentle Thames's crystal stream.