Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; Here Samphire-banks and Saltwort bound the flood, There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud; And higher up, a ridge of all things base, Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place. Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, Urged on by pains, half-grounded, half afloat: While at her stern an angler takes his stand, And marks the fish he purposes to land; From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray Of the warm sun, the scaly people play. Far other craft our prouder river shows, Hoys, pinks, and sloops: brigs, brigantines, and snows: Nor angler we on our wide stream descry, But one poor dredger where his oysters lie: He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide, Beats his weak arms against his tarry side, Then drains the remnant of diluted gin, To aid the warmth that languishes within; Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat His tingling fingers into gathering heat. He shall again be seen when evening comes, And social parties crowd their favourite rooms: Where on the table pipes and papers lie, The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by; 'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around, They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound; And few themselves the savoury boon deny, The food that feeds, the living luxury. Yon is our Quay! those smaller hoys from town, Its various ware, for country use, bring down; Those laden waggons, in return, impart The country-produce to the city mart; Hark! to the clamour in that miry road, Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load; The lumbering wealth she empties round the place, Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case: While the loud seaman and the angry hind, Mingling in business, bellow to the wind. Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks, Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks: See! the long keel, which soon the waves must hide; See! the strong ribs which form the roomy side; Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke, And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke. Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar. Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd, Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud; Or in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play, And grow familiar with the watery way: Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are, They know what British seamen do and dare; Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy The rustic wonder of the village-boy. Before you bid these busy scenes adieu, Behold the wealth that lies in public view, Those far extended heaps of coal and coke, Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke. This shall pass off, and you behold, instead, The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed; When from the Lighthouse brighter beams will rise, To show the shipman where the shallow lies. Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene -