I must not linger, though well pleas’d I might,

(And Memory would enjoy the dear delay)

Upon each hour that wing’d its noiseless flight

Over my head on that delightful day.

Yet would I not, in this my faint essay

To trace its tranquil pleasures, wrong it so,

As not endeavour briefly to portray

Our morning's ride; though lacking power to show

Those lovely scenes attir’d in Autumn's richest glow.

For they indeed were beautiful! we drove

Through bowering lanes; their lofty trees between,

Whose leaves were ting’d with colours far above

Spring's gayest flowers, or turf of freshest green:

Their blending shades of every tint were seen;

Pale amber, half transparent in the ray

Of the bright sun; while others, in his sheen

Assum’d more gorgeous beauty; others, gray,

Wither’d, and lifeless now, bestrew’d our narrow way.

Nor was the distant scenery aught surpass’d

By nearer objects: there, expanding wide,

And by unclouded sunshine brightly glass’d,

Flow’d, ORWELL! thy serenely rippling tide,

Hemm’d in by hilly slopes on every side,

Whose tufted woods upon its margin break,

It more resembled, as by us descried,

Some quietly reposing inland lake,

Than ocean's briny branch, which ebb and flow o’er-take:

And on its bosom, mark’d by vivid gleam

Of sunny glory, peacefully did sleep

A single vessel, whose white sail might seem

The lonely monarch of its little deep:

And where its banks arose abruptly steep,

Though cliffs it boasts not, lines of lengthen’d shade

Over its silvery breast appear’d to creep:

Yet those soft shadowy lines but lovelier made

Its sparkling radiance seem, by contrast's height’ning aid.

Orwell! lov’d stream, at thought of thee I pause,

To pay that tribute thou mayst justly claim,

Scene of my boyish pleasures! for that cause

Worthy such song as Muse of mine can frame.

Not mine the power to bid thy cherish’d name

To aught of classic dignity aspire;

Yet all I can bestow of fleeting fame

Thy sweet recesses from my song require,

And well might these demand a worthier, louder lyre.

England may boast of streams more beautiful,