SWEET THAMES, RUN SOFTLY TILL I END MY SONG

With rushes fenced, with swaying osiers crowned, Old Thames from out the western country hies; By daisy-dappled meads his course is found, Bearing upon his breast brave argosies Of stately lilies. Poets loved to praise The stream whose tide doth calmly flow along, And this the echo of their tuneful lays: “Sweet Themmes, runne softly till I ende my song.” Past town and village, cot and lonely farm, His silver stream with murm’ring music goes; Singing glad anthems, full of drowsy charm; Sweet songs of praise, unheeded not by those Who know his banks full well, who often love To roam his course, his marge to pace along, While Spenser’s line re-echoes as we rove: “Sweet Themmes, runne softly till I ende my song.”