The River Cherwell

Cherwell! how pleased along thy willowed edge
  Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began
  To tinge the distant turret's golden fan,
  Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge!
  And now reposing on thy banks once more,
  I bid the lute farewell, and that sad lay
  Whose music on my melancholy way
  I wooed: beneath thy willows waving hoar,
  Seeking a while to rest--till the bright sun
  Of joy return; as when Heaven's radiant Bow
  Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below:
  Whate'er betide, yet something have I won
  Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
  Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.