ON thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn, <br />No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear, <br />Yet shall the mournful muse thy course adorn, <br />And still to her thy rustic waves be dear. <br />For with the infant Otway, lingering here, <br />Of early woes she bade her votary dream, <br />While thy low murmurs sooth'd his pensive ear <br />And still the poet--consecrates the stream. <br />Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side, <br />The first-born violets of the year shall spring; <br />And in thy hazles, bending o'er the tide, <br />The earliest nightingale delight to sing: <br />While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate <br />Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate.<br /><br />Charlotte Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxvi-to-the-river-arun/
