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William Cowper - See Where The Thames, The Purest StreamWilliam Cowper - See Where The Thames, The Purest Stream
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See where the Thames, the purest stream That wavers to the noon-day beam, Divides the vale below; While like a vein of liquid ore His waves enrich the happy shore, Still shining as they flow. Nor yet, my Delia, to the main Runs the sweet tide without a stain Unsullied as it seems; Thy nymphs of many a sable flood Deform with streaks of oozy mud The bosom of the Thames. Some idle rivulets, that feed And suckle every noisome weed, A sandy bottom boast; For ever bright, for ever clear, Tho trifling shallow rills appear In their own channel lost. Thus fares it with the human soul, Where copious floods of passion roll, By genuine love supplied; Fair in itself the current shows, But ah! a thousand anxious woes Pollute the noble tide. These are emotions known to few; For where at most a vapoury dew Surrounds the tranquil heart, Then as the triflers never prove The glad excess of real love, They never prove the smart. O then my life, at last relent! Though cruel the reproach I sent, My sorrow was unfeigned: Your passion, had I loved you not, You might have scorned, renounced, forgot, And I had ne`er complained. While you indulge a groundless fear, The imaginary woes you bear Are real woes to me: But thou art kind, and good thou art, Nor wilt, by wronging thine own heart, Unjustly punish me. How blessed the youth whom fate ordains A kind relief from all his pains, In some admired fair; Whose tenderest wishes find expressed Their own resemblance in her breast, Exactly copied there! What good soe`er the gods dispense, The enjoyment of its influence Still on her love depends; Her love the shield that guards his heart, Or wards the blow, or blunts the dart That peevish fortune sends. Thus, Delia, while thy love endures, The flame my happy breast secures From fortune`s fickle power; Change as she list, she may increase, But not abate my happiness, Confirmed by thee before. Thus while I share her smiles with thee, Welcome, my love, shall ever be The favours she bestows; Yet not on those I found my bliss, But in the noble ecstasies The faithful bosom knows. And when she prunes her wings for flight, And flutters nimbly from my sight, Contented I resign Whate`er she gave; thy love alone I can securely call my own, Happy while that is mine.
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