But now this mighty flood, upon his voyage prest (That found how with his strength his beauties still increased, From where brave Windsor stood on tiptoe to behold The fair and goodly Thames, so far as ere he could, With kingly houses crowned, of more than earthly pride, Upon his either banks, as he along doth glide) With wonderful delight doth his long course pursue, Where Oatlands, Hampton Court, and Richmond he doth view, Then Westminster the next great Thames doth entertain; That vaunts her palace large, and her most sumptuous fane: The land’s tribunal seat that challengeth for hers, The crowning of our kings, their famous sepulchres. Then goes he on along by that more beauteous strand, Expressing both the wealth and bravery of the land. (So many sumptuous bowers within so little space The all-beholding sun scarce sees in all his race.) And on by London leads, which like a crescent lies, Whose windows seem to mock the star-befreckled skies; Besides her rising spires, so thick themselves that show, As do the bristling reeds within his banks that grow. There sees his crowded wharfs, and people-pestered shores, His bosom overspread with shoals of labouring oars: With that most costly bridge that doth him most renown, By which he clearly puts all other rivers down.
Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre; When I, (whose sullein care, Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay In princes court, and expectation vayne Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, Like empty shadows, did afflict my brayne,) Walkt forth to ease my payne Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes; Whose rutty bank, the which his river hemmes, Was paynted all with variable flowers, And all the meades adornd with dainty gemmes, Fit to decke maydens bowres, And crowne their paramours Against the brydale day, which is not long: Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song. * * * * * With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe Come softly swimming downe along the lee; Two fairer birds I yet did never see; The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew, Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appeare; Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; So purely white they were, That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, And marre their beauties bright, That shone as heavens light, Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song. * * * * * So ended she; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, Which said, their brydale daye should not be long: And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground Their accents did resound. So forth those ioyous Birdes did passe along Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low, As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, Yet did by signes his glad affection show, Making his streame run slow. And all the foule which in his flood did dwell Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend, And their best service lend Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.At length they all to mery London came, To mery London, my most kyndly nurse, That to me gave this lifes first native sourse, Though from another place I take my name, An house of auncient fame: There when they came, whereas those bricky towres The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde, Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde, Till they decayd through pride; Next whereunto there standes a stately place, Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell. Whose want too well now feels my freendles case; But ah! here fits not well Olde woes, but ioyes, to tell Against the bridale daye, which is not long: Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song. * * * * *
O roving Muse! recall that wondrous year When winter reigned in bleak Britannia’s air; When hoary Thames, with frosted osiers crowned, Was three long moons in icy fetters bound. The waterman, forlorn, along the shore, Pensive reclines upon his useless oar: See harnessed steeds desert the stony town, And wander roads unstable not their own; Wheels o’er the hardened water smoothly glide, And raze with whitened tracks the slippery tide; Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire, And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire; Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets appear, And numerous games proclaim the crowded fair. So, when the general bids the martial train Spread their encampment o’er the spacious plain, Thick-rising tents a canvas city build, And the loud dice resound through all the field.
I send, I send here my supremest kiss To thee, my silver-footed Thamasis. No more shall I reiterate thy strand, Whereon so many stately structures stand: Nor in the summer’s sweeter evenings go, To bath in thee, as thousand others doe: No more shall I a long thy christall glide, In barge with boughes and rushes beautifi’d, With soft-smooth virgins for our chast disport, To Richmond, Kingstone, and to Hampton-Court: Never againe shall I with finnie ore Put from or draw unto the faithfull shore, And landing here, or safely landing there, Make way to my beloved Westminster, Or to the golden Cheap-side, where the earth Of Julia Herrick gave to me my birth. May all clean nimphs and curious water dames With swan-like state flote up and down thy streams: No drought upon thy wanton waters fall To make them leane, and languishing at all: No ruffling winds come hither to discease Thy pure and silver-wristed Naides. Keep up your state, ye streams; and as ye spring, Never make sick your banks by surfeiting. Grow young with tydes, and though I see ye never, Receive this vow, so fare ye well for ever.
Robert Herrick, "His Teares to Thamasis" in Hesperides (1648)
Then commerce brought into the public walk The busy merchant; the big warehouse built; Raised the strong crane; choked up the loaded street With foreign plenty; and thy stream, O Thames, Large, gentle, deep, majestic, king of floods! Chose for his grand resort. On either hand, Like a long wintry forest, groves of masts Shot up their spires; the bellying sheet between Possessed the breezy void; the sooty hulk Steered sluggish on; the splendid barge along Rowed, regular, to harmony; around, The boat, light skimming, stretched its oary wings; While deep the various voice of fervent toil From bank to bank increased.
Thou too, great father of the British floods! With joyful pride survey’st our lofty woods; Where towering oaks their growing honors rear, And future navies on thy shores appear. Not Neptune’s self from all her streams receives A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives. No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear, No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear. Nor Po so swells the fabling poet’s lays, While led along the skies his current strays, As thine, which visits Windsor’s famed abodes, To grace the mansion of our earthly gods: Nor all his stars above a lustre show, Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still, Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
My eye, descending from the hill, surveys Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays. Thames! the most loved of all the Ocean’s sons, By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity; Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold: His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers which their infants overlay; Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. No unexpected inundations spoil The mower’s hopes, nor mock the ploughman’s toil; But godlike his unwearied bounty flows; First loves to do, then loves the good he does. Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, But free and common as the sea or wind; When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Visits the world, and in his flying towers Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; Finds wealth where ’tis, bestows it where it wants, Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. So that to us no thing, no place, is strange, While his fair bosom is the world’s Exchange. O, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull; Strong without rage, without o’erflowing full.
Sir John Denham, from Cooper’s Hill (1642)
Where Thames along the daisied meads His wave in lucid mazes leads, Silent, slow, serenely flowing, Wealth on either side bestowing, There in a safe though small retreat, Content and Love have fixed their seat,— Love, that counts his duty pleasure; Content, that knows and hugs his treasure.From art, from jealousy secure, As faith unblamed, as friendship pure, Vain opinion nobly scorning, Virtue aiding, life adorning, Fair Thames along thy flowery side, May thou whom truth and reason guide All their tender hours improving, Live like us, beloved and loving.
A glimpse of the river! it glimmers Through the stems of the beeches; Through the screen of the willows it shimmers In long winding reaches; Flowing so softly that scarcely It seems to be flowing, But the reeds of the low little islands Are bent to its going; And soft as the breath of a sleeper Its heaving and sighing, In the coves where the fleets of the lilies At anchor are lying: It looks as if fallen asleep In the lap of the meadows, and smiling Like a child in the grass, dreaming deep Of the flowers and their golden beguiling.A glimpse of the river! it glooms Underneath the dark arches; Across it the broad shadow looms, And the eager crowd marches; Where waiting the feet of the city, Strong and swift it is flowing; On its bosom the ships of the nations Are coming and going; Heavy laden, it labors and spends, In a great strain of duty, The power that was gathered and nursed In the calm and the beauty. Like thee, noble river, like thee! Let our lives in beginning and ending Fair in their gathering be, And great in the time of their spending.
Isabella Craig Knox, "A Glimpse of the River" in The Woman's Journal (2 September 1882), p. 278
I dearly love this London, this royal northern London, And am up in all its history, to Brutus and to Lud; But I wish that certain Puritan simplicities were undone, That the houses had more gable-ends, and the river less of mud.And often, as I wander in the fine new squares, I ponder The reason why men like to live in long white plastered rows, And sigh for our old streets, like those across the Channel yonder, At Bruges or at Antwerp, such as everybody knows.But our river still is beautiful, rejoicing in the quaintest Old corners for a painter (till the new quays are begun). See there the line of distant hills, and where the blue is faintest, The brown sails of the barges lie slanting in the sun.Here’s a steamer—now we’re in it—one is passing every minute; There’s the palace of St. Stephen, which they call “a dream in stone”; But I think, beyond all question, it was in an indigestion That the architect devised those scrolls whose language is unknown.Now we pass the Lollards’ Tower, as we glide upon our journey, And think of Wicliffe’s ashes scattered wide across the sea; Pass the site of ancient Ranelagh, which (vide Fanny Burney) Brings up the tales we read at school to Laurence and to me.At last we get to Putney, and we rush across the river, The gentle rural river, flowing softly through the grass; And we walk more fast than ever, for our nerves are in a quiver, Till we mount the hill of Wimbledon, and see the shadows passAthwart the budding chestnuts, and clear brown water lying, Filled with the click of insects, among the yellowing gorse; Here there is no human creature, and the only living feature Of all this glorious common is that idle old white horse. * * * * * The sun is sinking in the west, let’s leave the wood behind us, Across the road, and up the steps, see here is Richmond Park; Let’s plunge amid the ferny glades, where only deer can find us,— It wants an hour to sunset yet, and two before it’s dark. * * * * * There, now we’re on the terrace; see, this regal Thames is winding Among its poplared islands with a slow majestic pace; We should see the towers of Windsor if the sun were not so blinding, It casts a glow on all the trees, and a glory on your face.Golden is the landscape, and the river, and the people, The cedar-stems are molten now the sun is going down; Let’s keep the vision as it is; the clock in yonder steeple Reminds us it is getting late, and we’re miles away from town. * * * * *
Bessie Rayner Parkes, "Up the River" in The Athenaeum (16 May 1863), p. 645
Thou who shalt stop where Thames’ translucent wave Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave, Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, Unpolished gems no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow: Approach. Great nature studiously behold! And eye the mine without a wish for gold. Approach: but aweful! Lo the Egerian grott, Where, nobly-pensive, St. John sate and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont’s soul. Let such, such only, tread the sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
Alexander Pope, "On a Grotto near the Thames at Twickenham"
Glide smoothly on, thou silver Thames, Where Fane has fixed her calm retreat; Go pour thy tributary streams, To lave imperial Thetis’ feet. There when in flowery pride you come Amid the courtiers of the main, And join within the mossy dome Old Tiber, Arno, or the Seine; When each ambitious stream shall boast The glories of its flattered lords; What pomp adorns the Gallic coast, What Rome, or Tuscany affords; Then shalt thou speak (and sure thy tale Must check each partial torrent’s pride) What scenes adorn this flowery vale, Through which thy happier currents glide. But when thy fond description tells The beauties of this grott divine,— What miracles are wrought by shells, Where nicest taste and fancy join,— Thy story shall the goddess move To quit her empire of the main, Her throne of pearls, her coral grove, And live retired with thee and Fane.
Richard Graves, "To Lady Fane on Her Grotto at Basildon, 1746"
Say, Father Thames, whose gentle pace Gives leave to view what beauties grace Your flowery banks, if you have seen The much-sung Grotto of the queen. Contemplative, forget awhile Oxonian towers, and Windsor’s pile, And Wolsey’s pride (his greatest guilt), And what great William since has built, And flowing past by Richmond scenes (Honoured retreat of two great queens), From Lion House, whose proud survey Browbeats your flood, look ’cross the way, And view, from highest swell of tide, The milder scenes of Surrey side. Though yet no palace grace the shore, To lodge that pair you should adore; Nor abbeys, great in ruins, rise, Royal equivalents for vice; Behold a grot, in Delphic grove, The Graces’ and the Muses’ love; (O, might our laureate here, How would he hail his new-born year!) A temple from vain glories free, Whose goddess is Philosophy, Whose sides such licensed idols crown As superstition would pull down: The only pilgrimage I know, That men of sense would choose to go; Which sweet abode, her wisest choice, Urania cheers with heavenly voice, While all the virtues gather round To see her consecrate the ground.
Thames, infant Thames, Rippling, flowing Water-white, Where the bright Young wilding gems Are blowing; Babbling ever in unrest, While as o’er her darling’s pillow Bends the mother, so the willow O’er thy breast.Thames, maiden Thames, Glancing, shining Silver-blue; While for you The lilied stems Are pining. Ah! thou lovest best to play Slily with the wanton swallow, While he whispers thee to follow Him away.Thames, matron Thames, That ebbest back From the sea; Oh! in thee There are emblems Of life’s track: We, too, would, like thee, regain, If we might, our greener hours; We, too, mourn our vanished flowers, But in vain.
O, many a river song has sung and dearer made the names Of Tweed and Ayr and Nith and Doon, but who has sung our Thames? And much green Kent and Oxfordshire and Middlesex it shames That they’ve not given long since one song to their own noble Thames.O, clear are England’s waters all, her rivers, streams, and rills, Flowing stilly through her valleys lone and winding by her hills; But river, stream, or rivulet through all her breadth who names For beauty and for pleasantness with our own pleasant Thames.The men of grassy Devonshire the Tamar well may love, And well may rocky Derbyshire be noisy of her Dove; But with all their grassy beauty, nor Dove nor Tamar shames, Nor Wye, beneath her winding woods, our own green, pleasant Thames.I care not if it rises in the Seven Wells’ grassy springs, Or at Thames’ head whence the rushy Churn its gleaming waters brings, From the Cotswolds to the heaving Nore, our praise and love it claims, From the Isis’ fount to the salt-sea Nore, how pleasant is the Thames!O, Gloucestershire and Wiltshire well its gleaming waters love, And Oxfordshire and Berkshire rank it all their streams above; Nor Middlesex nor Essex nor Kent nor Surrey claims A river equal in their love to their own noble Thames. How many a brimming river swells its waters deep and clear, The Windrush and the Cherwell and the Thame to Dorset dear, The Kennet and the Loddon that have music in their names, But no grandeur like to that in yours, my own mast-shadowed Thames.How many a city of renown beside its green course stands! How many a town of wealth and fame, how famous through all lands! Fair Oxford, pleasant Abingdon and Reading, world-known names, Crowned Windsor, Hampton, Richmond, all add glory to our Thames.But what wide river through the world, though broad its waters be, A London with its might and wealth upon its banks shall see? The greatness of earth’s greatest mart, that to herself she claims, The world’s great wonder, England’s boast, gives glory to our Thames.What hugest river of the earth such fleets as hers e’er bore, Such tribute rich from every land, such wealth from every shore, Such memories of mighty ones whose memories are fames, Who from their mighty deeds afar came homewards up the Thames?In Westminster’s old Abbey’s vaults, what buried greatness lies! Nelson and Wellington sleep there where Wren’s dome fills the skies; Here stands proud England’s senate-house with all its mighty fames, These are the boast of Englishmen, the glory of our Thames.How many a river of the earth flows through a land of slaves! Her banks are thronged with freemen’s homes, are heaped with freemen’s graves; Name the free races of the earth, and he who tells them names Freemen of the free blood of those who dwell beside our Thames.How many a heart in many a land yearns to you with what pride, What love, by the far Ganges’ banks, by the green Murray’s side! By Ohio’s waves, Columbia’s stream, how many a free heart names, O, with what love! the old dear homes they left beside the Thames.River of England, your green banks no arméd feet, thank God! No hostile hosts, no stranger ranks for centuries past have trod; O, may no foemen ever come, to threat your homes with flames! But should they come we’ll show them soon what hearts are by the Thames.Flow on in glory, still flow on, O Thames, unto the sea, Through glories gone, through grandeurs here, through greatness still to be: Through the free homes of England flow, and may yet higher fames, Still nobler glories, star your course, O my own native Thames!
William Cox Bennett, "The Glories of Our Thames"
Let the Rhine be blue and bright In its path of liquid light, Where the red grapes fling a beam Of glory on the stream; Let the gorgeous beauty there Mingle all that’s rich and fair; Yet to me it ne’er could be Like that river great and free, The Thames! the mighty Thames! Though it bear no azure wave, Though no pearly foam may lave, Or leaping cascades pour Their rainbows on its shore; Yet I ever loved to dwell Where I heard its gushing swell, And never skimmed its breast But I warmly praised and blest The Thames! the mighty Thames! Can ye find in all the world A braver flag unfurled Than that which floats above The stream I sing and love? O, what a burning glow Has thrilled my breast and brow, To see that proud flag come With glory to its home, The Thames! the mighty Thames! Did ribs more firm and fast Ere meet the shot or blast Than the gallant barks that glide On its full and steady tide? Would ye seek a dauntless crew With hearts to dare and hands to do? You’ll find the foe proclaims They are cradled on the Thames; The Thames! the mighty Thames! They say the mountain child Oft loves its torrent wild So well, that should he part He breaks his pining heart; He grieves with smothered sighs Till his wearying spirit dies; And so I yearn to thee, Thou river of the free, My own, my native Thames!
Eliza Cook, "The Thames"
One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly Lift her with care; Fashion’d so slenderly, Young, and so fair!Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve’s family— Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! O, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God’s providence Seeming estranged.Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life’s history, Glad to death’s mystery, Swift to be hurl’d— Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!In she plunged boldly— No matter how coldly The rough river ran— Over the brink of it, Picture it—think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion’d so slenderly, Young, and so fair!Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!Dreadfully staring Thro’ muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix’d on futurity.Perishing gloomily, Spurr’d by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest.— Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!
Old Thames! thy merry waters run Gloomily now, without star or sun! The wind blows o’er thee, wild and loud, And heaven is in its death-black shroud; And the rain comes down with all its might, Darkening the face of the sullen Night.Midnight dies! There booms a sound, From all the church-towers thundering round; Their echoes into each other run, And sing out the grand night’s awful “One!” Saint Bride, Saint Sepulchre, great Saint Paul, Unto each other, in chorus, call!Who speaks? ’Twas nothing: the patrol grim Moves stealthily o’er the pavement dim; The debtor dreams of the gripe of law; The harlot goes staggering to her straw; And the drunken robber, and beggar bold Laugh loud, as they limp by the Bailey Old.Hark,—I hear the blood in a felon’s heart! I see him shiver—and heave—and start (Does he cry?) from his last short bitter slumber, To find that his days have reached their number,— To feel that there comes, with the morning text, Blind death, and the scaffold, and then—what next?Sound, stormy Autumn! Brazen bell, Into the morning send your knell! Mourn, Thames! keep firm your chant of sorrow; Mourn, men! for a fellow-man dies to-morrow. Alas! none mourn; none care;—the debt Of pity the whole wide world forget!
Barry Cornwall, from "Il Penseroso and L’Allegro (Night)" in English Songs, and Other Small Poems (1846)
