James Thomson (1)

Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
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Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
In Twit'nham bowers, and for their Pope implore.

Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,
The glow-worm lights his gem; and through the dark,
A read more

Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,
The glow-worm lights his gem; and through the dark,
A moving radiance twinkles.

Cruel as death, and hungry at the grave.

Cruel as death, and hungry at the grave.

When autumn scatters his departing gleams,
Warn'd of approaching winter, gather'd, play
The swallow-people; and toss'd wide read more

When autumn scatters his departing gleams,
Warn'd of approaching winter, gather'd, play
The swallow-people; and toss'd wide around,
O'er the calm sky, in convolution swift,
The feather'd eddy floats; rejoicing once,
Ere to their wintry slumbers they retire.

'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation.

'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation.