The Banks of Wye by Robert Bloomfield
page 62 of 71 (87%)
page 62 of 71 (87%)
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In raptures, o'er thy infant stream;
For could th' immortal soul forego Its cumbrous load of earthly woe, And clothe itself in fairy guise, Too small, too pure, for human eyes, Blithe would we seek thy utmost spring, Where mountain-larks first try the wing; There, at the crimson dawn of day, Launch a scoop'd leaf, and sail away, Stretch'd at our ease, or crouch below, Or climb the green transparent prow, Stooping where oft the blue bell sips The passing stream, and shakes and dips; And when the heifer came to drink, Quick from the gale our bark would shrink, And huddle down amidst the brawl Of many a five-inch waterfall, Till the expanse should fairly give The bow'ring hazel room to live; And as each swelling junction came, To form a riv'let worth a name, We'd dart beneath, or brush away Long-beaded webs, that else might stay Our silent course; in haste retreat, Where whirlpools near the bull-rush meet; Wheel round the ox of monstrous size; And count below his shadowy flies; And sport amidst the throng; and when We met the barks of giant men, Avoid their oars, still undescried, |
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