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Wednesday, 25 April 2012

To the River Arun - Charlotte Turner Smith

To the River Arun

On thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn,
No glittering fanes or marble domes appear:
Yet shall the weeping muse thy course adorn,
And still to her thy rustic waves be dear.
For with the infant Otway lingering here
Of early woes she bade her votary dream,
While thy low murmurs soothed his pensive ear;
And still the poet consecrates the stream.
Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side,
The first-born violets of the year shall spring
And in thy hazels, bending o'er the tide,
The earliest nightingales delight to sing:
While kindred spirits pitying shall relate
Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate

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