Classic Poem

The last retreating autumn-dirge
Swell'd slowly on the air;
The leaves were changing on the trees,
The arms of some were bare.
The harvest-sheaves were gather'd in,
And garner'd safe and dry,
When first I saw the Avon clear
Beneath a cloudless sky.

O beautiful! O beautiful
Its waters, as they glide
Through scenes where Shakspere seems to breathe
In music by its side!
No solemn vision of the night
To me was half so dear,
As its bright wavelets glancing by,
Like glass or crystal clear.

Laving the churchyard wall, it flows
Along its winding way,
Where he, the prince of poets, sleeps,
Within the chancel grey.
On, on through meads and greenwood glades
Serenely doth it run,
Where buttercups and marigolds
Are blinking in the sun.

Slow peal'd the great bells from the tower,
The organ pour'd its strain;
Birds in the waters dipp'd their wings,
Rose up, then dipp'd again.
Our shadows were reflected clear
Within its glassy deeps:
O, fitting teacher of the bard
Who near its margin sleeps!

O what a joy it was to muse,
Its shining surface o'er!
Methought I heard the sound of song
Along its classic shore;
Ay, ev'ry ripple had a voice,
Which softly shoreward came,
And the green banks upon its edge
Were whispering Shakspere's name.

And as I wander'd by its marge,
With wonder in my soul,
Sweet feelings I cannot express
Unbidden o'er me stole.
I thought how pleasant life would be
Spent in this music hall,
In song and holy intercourse
With Him who giveth all.

The verdure of the fields around,
The robin on the latch,
The daisy by the old field stile,
The sparrow on the thatch,
The hawthorn on the low lane hedge,
The lark's delicious lay,
Told of the poet-king who has
Three centuries pass'd away.

As then, so now the seasons come
And go, with sun and shower,
And down the lane the little girl
Is gathering many a flower.
The merry ploughboy, rein in hand,
Is whistling on the lea,
As when great Shakspere wander'd here:
Now where, O where is he?

Flow on, dear Avon, ever flow:
When in my home again,
Thine image, like a crystal thought,
Shall with me still remain.
And when among my Cornish rills,
Weaving my simple rhyme,
I'll muse on him who sang with thee
The loftiest lays of time.