Classic Poem

Full well may wander through the moor and dell
Thy stream, O gliding Stour, for man's behoof,
Where'er thy ready stream may spring to quell
The leaping flames that burn his shelt'ring roof.
Quench fire thou mayest, aye, and man with thanks
Will greet thy glitt'ring stream on roof or floor;
But thou hast quench'd ere now and now once more
Sweet lives, the hope of many on thy banks.
O why cast not the wind stroke o'er thy face
A rock firm sheet of ice from edge to edge?
Or left not thy bright ripples free to chase
Each other down beside thy waving sedge,
That hopeful maidens might not so have sped
Their joyful courses from the frozen shore?
Alas! too trustful to the crystal floor
That lay, too brittle, o'er thy darksome bed,
As when two waves adown thy gliding stream
Run shining, suddenly to sink from sight;
Or when two shooting stars are seen to gleam
Through swift short courses, to be quenched in night,
So sped those two lov'd maidens, blithely gay,
Fair, and rejoicing in their flying speed
By leafless tree and by the frozen mead,
And, aye, so suddenly they sank away.
Who would not seem to hear upon the bank
A whisp'ring of that day among the spears;
Or would not give, beholding where they sank,
To thy dark waters some few drops in tears?
But take the better cheer, whoe'er may stand,
O sadden'd Stour, beside these depths or shoals,
For thou art but a Jordan to their souls:
They went, through thee, into a blissful land.