The Thames.

I love thy banks the best, O silent Thames, At morning time, When fogs steal o’er them, and with ruddy flames The still weak sun Bursts, now and then, at moments through the mist And sudden flies, Leaving the landscape which his beams have kissed, Cold and forlorn; And then, again returning to the fight, The God of morn Dispels the clouds, and bathes in trembling light Thy banks so gay. Or struggling with the clouds, now here, now there, O’erpowers them, and ushers in the day. I love thy banks again, O merry Thames, Ambient and gay, When lowing herds graze in thy meads, or lie With whisk of tail In the long grass, half hidden by the glazed And heated air, And chew the cud half-silent or half-dazed. How deadly still Is the full tide of noon, when beasts and birds Alike repose, And from the sullen shade not e’en a bee Or dragon-fly Breaks the hour’s silence! Then the cirrus clouds, Wind-chas’d and heavy, roll or stagger by. I love thy banks at all times, silver Thames, But certes the least When huge waves suddenly immerse their sides, And from the East, With sound of harp, or flute, and megaphones, Young men and maids On steamers Allah’s Holy Name invoke In raucous tones No Moslem knows, and call me curious names, And drink, and smoke Not nargiléhs, but strong cigars, whose whiff Borne on the air, Shocks my olfactory nerves, and makes me sick, Sick of them all, the Thames, the whole affair!