So let them laugh with sidelong glance, I do detest their ignorance! Oh! if my soul could gain its hope, I'd give my native town some scope For learning, far above the trash Of superstitious, tasteless hash! But woe is me! I know not where to go To soothe the torment of this deadly blow. Thou stream majestic! Orwell's tide, Why dost thou here so gently glide? And wash, with waves as soft as down, The borders of my native town? Have I thy bosom breasted well, With gently undulating swell. And shall I never more thy waters press? Oh, Orwell! rob me of this deep distress! I'd kiss thy waves! I'd bow my knee, Could'st thou relieve mine agony; But now thy smile ungracious is, And speaks to me of others' bliss; Whilst I, who loved thy waters green, Am desolate and lonely seen. O! ye loved waters of my youthful day! Robbed of my love, how can ye love display? Thou winding Gipping, where I strayed In boyhood on thy slopes I played, And loved to angle from thy banks, And sportive in my childish pranks, To gather wild flowers from thy side, How canst thou now my woes deride? Stream of mine infant steps, my tears would flow Were I beside thy gay banks walking now. Yet thou dost move to meet the tide Of Orwell's waters, like a bride In garments white, and pure, and chaste. Oh! why so cheerful in thy haste? Ah! there ye give the mutual kiss, As that of matrimonial bliss, And never parted, never know ye pain, But flow united onward to the main. Ye friends within my native town, Me, kindly, ye are proud to own; A father's form was lately there, With placid brow, and hoary hair, He's gone where I shall shortly go, And there but terminate my woe. O, friends of youth! I cannot now reveal The bitter anguish of my word, farewell! Mother, ay, mother! in thine heart I found my own dear counterpart; For thou, in youth, wert all to me, Until this eye had turn'd from thee To give admiring thoughts to one, Who ne'er reflects them on thy son. O! mother, mother, never shall I know The heart's revival from this fatal blow. Hills, woods, and valleys, is't a dream? Ye beauties of the Orwell's stream! Castles, and churches, monasteries, And all your rich varieties, Hereafter be ye dull to me, No more your beauties let me see, In aught that can another scholar move, To taste the sweetness of this scene of love. Ye smile so sweetly--not for me-- I groan within to look on ye; Ye look so lovely, not to shine On anything I welcome mine; Ye breathe so softly on mine ear, Death seems to kill the atmosphere; Why do I not this moment here decay, And, sighing, breathe my very soul away?