Classic Poem

And as when winter doth the earth array
In silver suit, and when the night and day
Are in dissension, night locks up the ground,
Which by the help of day is oft unbound,
A shepherd's boy with bow and shafts address'd,
Ranging the fields, having once pierc'd the breast
Of some poor fowl, doth with the blow straight rush
To catch the bird lies panting in the bush:
So rush'd this striker in, up Marine took,
And hasten'd with her to a near-hand brook.
Old shepherds sain (old shepherds sooth have sain)
Two rivers took their issue from the main,
Both near together, and each bent his race,
Which of them both should first behold the face
Of radiant Phaebus: one of them in gliding
Chanc'd on a vein where nitre had abiding:
The other, loathing that her purer wave
Should be defil'd with that the nitre gave.
Fled fast away, the other follow'd fast,
Till both been in a rock ymet at last.
As seemed best, the rock did first deliver
Out of his hollow sides the purer river,
(As if it taught those men in honour clad
To help the virtuous and suppress the bad,)
Which gotten loose, did softly glide away
As men from earth, to earth; from sea, to sea;
So rivers run: and that from whence both came
Takes what she gave: waves, earth: but leaves a name.
As waters have their course, and in their place
Succeeding streams will out, so is man's race:
The name doth still survive, and cannot die,
Until the channels stop, or spring grow dry.
As I have seen upon a bridal day
Full many maids clad in their best array,
In honour of the bride come with their flaskets
Fill'd full with flowers: others in wicker-baskets
Bring from the marish rushes to o'erspread
The ground whereon to church the lovers tread;
Whilst that the quaintest youth of all the plain
Ushers their way with many a piping strain:
So, as in joy, at this fair river's birth,
Triton came up a channel with his mirth,
And call'd the neighb'ring nymphs each in her turn.
To pour their pretty rivulets from their urn.
To wait upon this new-deliver'd spring,
Some running through the meadows, with them bring
Cowslip and mint: and 'tis another's lot
To light upon some gard'ner's curious knot,
Whence she upon her breast (love's sweet repose)
Doth bring the queen of flowers, the English rose.
Some from the fen bring reeds, wild-thyme from downs;
Some from a grove the bay that poets crowns;
Some from an aged rock the moss hath torn,
And leaves him naked unto winter's storm;
Another from her banks (in mere goodwill)
Brings nutriment for fish, the camomile.
Thus all bring somewhat, and do overspread
The way the spring unto the sea doth tread.
This while the flood which yet the rock up-pent,
And suffer'd not with jocund merriment
To tread rounds in his spring, came rushing forth,
As angry that his waves (he thought) of worth
Should not have liberty, nor help the prime.
And as some ruder swain composing rhyme,
Spends many a grey goose-quill unto the handle,
Buries within his socket many a candle,
Blots paper by the quire, and dries up ink,
As Xerxes' army did whole rivers drink,
Hoping thereby his name his work should raise
That it should live until the last of days:
Which finished, he boldly doth address
Him and his works to undergo the press;
When lo (O Fate!) his work not seeming fit
To walk in equipage with better wit,
Is kept from light, there gnawn by moths and worms,
At which he frets: 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 dispers'd 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 join'd 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, and did bestir
Himself to find his fellow-traveller.