ODE.

BY MR. SHAW.

O THAMES with chrystal face,
Whose waters visit as they stray,
The hamlets, where the shepherds play,
And seats that princes grace,
O Thames, still let me by thy stream,
Waste life away in pleasing dream,

Not where thy wave beside,
The city rears her turrets proud,
And the mad tumult of the croud
Resounds along thy tide,

O! let not there my youth pursue age will rue.

False joys that sober

Nor where thy bank along,

Some princely villa crowns the plain,
Whose gilded halls the glittering train
Of courtly flatterers throng,
O see me not there by thy wave,
Of show and idle state the slave.

But where thy silver springs
Thro' nameless vales their smooth way take,
Ere yet the shepherd they forsake,

To seek the seats of kings;

O! Thames, there let me rear my bower,
And deck it round with many a flower.

There like thy noiseless tide,
Which steals so softly thro' the vale,
That on the bank the poplar pale
Hears not the current glide,
So noiseless let my secret day,
Among the green woods slide away.

And as thy waters flow,
Not to annoy the simple swain,
His cot, his fold, or ripening grain,
But blessings to bestow,
So may I mark my silent way,
By scattering blessings where I stray.

Smoothly the years shall pass,
Nor shall I know that envious Time
Has stole away my youthful prime,
Till taught by thy clear glass;
Till in thy chrystal wave I trace
The roses withering on my face.

Along thy margent green, The gentle Muses oft at morn, In garb by rural virgin worn,

Shall round my bower be seen; Then shall they place me in their ranks, And lead me to their favourite banks.

Let not the Muses crown

With laurel wreath my tender head,
Nor round my humble temples spread
The palm that yields renown;
But round my brows a garland twine
Of roses by thy stream that shine.

There like thy noiseless tide,
Which steals so softly thro' the vale,
That on the bank the poplar pale
Hears not the current glide,
So noiseless let my secret day,
Among the woods slide away.
green

And as thy waters flow,
Not to annoy the simple swain,
His cot, his fold, or ripening grain,
But blessings to bestow,
So may I mark my silent way,
By scattering blessings where I stray.

Smoothly the years shall pass,
Nor shall I know that envious Time
Has stole away my youthful prime,
Till taught by thy clear glass;
Till in thy chrystal wave I trace
The roses withering on my face.

Along thy margent green, The gentle Muses oft at morn, In garb by rural virgin worn,

Shall round my bower be seen; Then shall they place me in their ranks, And lead me to their favourite banks.

Let not the Muses crown

With laurel wreath my tender head,
Nor round my humble temples spread
The palm that yields renown;
But round my brows a garland twine
Of roses by thy stream that shine.

Nor let the Muses bring

To grace my hand the sounding shell,
Nor bid me with loud measures swell
The trumpet by thy spring;

But let them bear to me at morn,
The reed that on thy bank is born.

Softly the reed shall blow,

And thy clear springs shall love the strain,
And waft it to the simple swain,

Who haunts the vales below;

But O! beyond the shepherd's bounds,
O! waft not, Thames, its artless sounds.

Oft by thy watery glass,
With sober look and pensive eye,
Beneath the poplars will I lie,

Along the smooth green grass,

Wrapt in soft thought and musing deep,
While on thy wave my eye I keep.

There if I chance to mark

The downward sky in thy clear stream,
Now bright with many a golden gleam,
With sudden shades now dark,
O! life, then will I say, and sigh,
Thy face is likest to that sky,

If bending o'er the brink,
Within thy wave fair flowers I spy,
Reflecting the gay bank, which fly
Our grasp, then will I think,

O! hope, thy glass still cheats our sight,
With flowers so faithless and so bright.