Classic Poem

Right so this river storms:
But broken forth; as Tavy creeps upon
The western vales of fertile Albion,
Here dashes roughly on an aged rock,
That his intended passage doth up-lock;
There intricately 'mongst the woods doth wander,
Losing himself in many a wry meander:
Here amorously bent, clips some fair mead;
And then dispersed in rills, doth measures tread
Upon her bosom 'mongst her flow'ry ranks:
There in another place bears down the banks
Of some day-labouring wretch: here meets a rill,
And with their forces joined cuts out a mill
Into an island, then in jocund guise
Surveys his conquest, lauds his enterprise:
Here digs a cave at some high mountain's foot:
There undermines an oak, tears up his root:
Thence rushing to some country farm at hand,
Breaks o'er the yeoman's mounds, sweeps from his land
His harvest hope of wheat, of rye, or pease:
And makes that channel which was shepherd's lease:
Here, as our wicked age doth sacrilege,
Helps down an abbey, then a natural bridge
By creeping underground he frameth out,
As who should say he either went about
To right the wrong he did, or hid his face,
For having done a deed so vile and base:
So ran this river on.