But past the bridge what change we found below! The stream, that all day long had laughed and played Betwixt the happy shires, ran dark and slow, And with its easy flood no murmur made: And weeds spread on its surface, and about The stagnant margin reared their stout heads out. Upon the left high elms, with giant wood Skirting the water-meadows, interwove Their slumbrous crowns, o’ershadowing where they stood The floor and heavy pillars of the grove: And in the shade, through reeds and sedges dank, A footpath led along the moated bank. Across, all down the right, an old brick wall, Above and o’er the channel, red did lean; Here buttressed up, and bulging there to fall, Tufted with grass and plants and lichen green; And crumbling to the flood, which at its base Slid gently nor disturbed its mirrored face. Sheer on the wall the houses rose, their backs All windowless, neglected and awry, With tottering coins, and crooked chimney stacks; And here and there an unused door, set high Above the fragments of its mouldering stair, With rail and broken step led out on air. Beyond, deserted wharfs and vacant sheds, With empty boats and barges moored along, And rafts half-sunken, fringed with weedy shreds, And sodden beams, once soaked to season strong. No sight of man, nor sight of life, no stroke, No voice the somnolence and silence broke. Then I who rowed leant on my oar, whose drip Fell without sparkle, and I rowed no more; And he that steered moved neither hand nor lip, But turned his wondering eye from shore to shore; And our trim boat let her swift motion die, Between the dim reflections floating by. 8 I praise the tender flower, That on a mournful day Bloomed in my garden bower And made the winter gay. Its loveliness contented My heart tormented. I praise the gentle maid Whose happy voice and smile To confidence betrayed My doleful heart awhile: And gave my spirit deploring Fresh wings for soaring. The maid for very fear Of love I durst not tell: The rose could never hear, Though I bespake her well: So in my song I bind them For all to find them. 9 A winter’s night with the snow about: ’Twas silent within and cold without: Both father and mother to bed were gone: The son sat yet by the fire alone. He gazed on the fire, and dreamed again Of one that was now no more among men: As still he sat and never aware How close was the spirit beside his chair. Nay, sad were his thoughts, for he wept and said Ah, woe for the dead! ah, woe for the dead! How heavy the earth lies now on her breast, The lips that I kissed, and the hand I pressed.