Majestic Thames, whose ample current flows,
The wood reflecting in its silver tide,
Which, hanging from the hills that grace thy side,
O'er this clear fount its massy foliage throws;
Here on thy brink my limbs again repose:
Yet though thy waves Augusta's towers divide,
Or by the foot of princely Windsor glide;
Still with more heartfelt joy my bosom glows,
While memory shows by Isis' virgin stream,
Where first I woo'd the witching powers of song,
As wrapt in fancy's sweet delusive dream,
I desultory rov'd her banks along,
Nor ask'd a brighter wreath to grace my theme,
Than humbly grew her willowy shades among.
