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104
Wellington.
LXI.
The River Avon.
“Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium.”—Horace.
I love thee, Avon! though thy banks have known
No deed of note, thy wand’ring course along
No bard of Avon hath poured forth in song
Thy tuneful praise; thy modest tide hath flown
For ages on, unheeded and alone.
I love thee for thy English name, but more
Because my countrymen along thy shore
Have made new homes. Therefore not all unknown
Henceforth thy streams shall flow. A little while
Shall see thy wastes grow lovely. Not in vain
Shall England’s sons dwell by thee many a mile.
With verdant meads and fields of waving grain
Thy rough, uncultured banks ere long shall smile;
Heaven-pointing spires shall beautify thy plain.
No deed of note, thy wand’ring course along
No bard of Avon hath poured forth in song
Thy tuneful praise; thy modest tide hath flown
For ages on, unheeded and alone.
I love thee for thy English name, but more
Because my countrymen along thy shore
Have made new homes. Therefore not all unknown
Henceforth thy streams shall flow. A little while
Shall see thy wastes grow lovely. Not in vain
Shall England’s sons dwell by thee many a mile.
With verdant meads and fields of waving grain
Thy rough, uncultured banks ere long shall smile;
Heaven-pointing spires shall beautify thy plain.
Henry Jacobs.
LXII.
Wellington.
Rugged she stands, no garlands of bright flowers
Bind her swart brows, no pleasant forest shades
Mantle with twining branches her high hills,
No leaping brooks fall singing to her sea.
Hers are no meadows green, nor ordered parks;
Not hers the gladness nor the light of song,
Nor cares she for my singing.
Bind her swart brows, no pleasant forest shades
Mantle with twining branches her high hills,
No leaping brooks fall singing to her sea.
Hers are no meadows green, nor ordered parks;
Not hers the gladness nor the light of song,
Nor cares she for my singing.