(_By Our Own Æsthetic Bard_)
The lilies are languid, the aspens quiver,
The Sun-God shooteth his shafts of light,
The ripples are wroth with the restless river;
_And O for the wash of the weir at night_!
The soul of the poet within him blenches
At thought of plunge in the water bright,
To witness the loves of the tender tenches:
_And O for the wash of the weir at night_!
The throstle is wooing within the thicket,
The fair frog fainteth in love's affright;
The maiden is waiting to ope the wicket;
_And O for the wash of the weir at night_!
The bargeman he knoweth where Marlow Bridge is.
To pies of puppy he doth invite;
The cow chews the cud on the pasture ridges;
_And O for the wash of the weir at night_!
So far from the roar of the seething city,
The poet reposes much too quite,
He trills to the Thames in a dainty ditty;
_And O for the wash of the weir at night_!
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[Illustration: _Malicious Swell in the stern sheets_ (_to little party
on the weather quarter_). "Splendid breeze, isn't it, Gus?"
_Gus_ (_who, you see, has let his cigar go out_). "Ye-es; but I say,
what's o'clock? Isn't it time to turn back?--What d'ye think?"]
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