Ritchie! to whom it shall be given to view
And trace (none worthier) that strange river's swell,
The desert's glory and its mystery too;
Oft when those Afran sands immeasurable,
And wearisome alike of form and hue,
Shall hang upon thy spirits like a spell,
Yet then shall recollections, bright and true,
Of thine own land, like waters from a well,
Rise to refresh thee; vale and pastoral stream,
And cottage smokes that curl thro' evening air,
And cultured plains, where populous cities teem,
And voice of friend beloved shall all be there,
With thought of guerdon high from Honour's hand
To cheer thy progress thro' that dangerous land.

More verses by John Kenyon