As in an evening when the gentle air Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear, When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain That likes me, straight I ask the same again, And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er With some sweet relish was forgot before: I would have been content, if he would play, In that one strain to pass the night away; But fearing much to do his patience wrong, Unwillingly have ask'd some other song: So in this differing key though I could well A many hours but as few minutes tell, Yet lest mine own delight might injure you (Though both so soon) I take my song anew. FROM 'BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS.' Between two rocks (immortal, without mother) That stand as if outfacing one another, There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, As if the waters hid them from the wind, Which never wash'd but at a higher tide The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide, Where never gale was longer known to stay Than from the smooth wave it had swept away The new divorced leaves, that from each side Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. At further end the creek, a stately wood Gave a kind shadow (to the brackish flood) Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe, Upon whose tops the hernshew bred her young, And hoary moss upon their branches hung; Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow. And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, None could allot them less than Nestor's years. As under their command the thronged creek Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek Where he his little boat might safely hide, Till it was fraught with what the world beside Could not outvalue; nor give equal weight Though in the time when Greece was at her height. * * * * * Yet that their happy voyage might not be Without Time's shortener, heaven-taught melody, (Music that lent feet to the stable woods, And in their currents turn'd the mighty floods, Sorrow's sweet nurse, yet keeping Joy alive, Sad Discontent's most welcome corrosive, The soul of art, best loved when love is by, The kind inspirer of sweet poesy, Least thou shouldst wanting be, when swans would fain Have sung one song, and never sung again,) The gentle shepherd, hasting to the shore, Began this lay, and timed it with his oar: Nevermore let holy Dee O'er other rivers brave, Or boast how (in his jollity) Kings row'd upon his wave. But silent be, and ever know That Neptune for my fare would row. * * * * * Swell then, gently swell, ye floods, As proud of what ye bear, And nymphs that in low coral woods String pearls upon your hair, Ascend; and tell if ere this day A fairer prize was seen at sea.