Thy roaring tide Old Thames, who hath not seen?
Or rural banks where calm thou steal'st along;
Who hath not heard from out thy bowers so green
The sweet meand'rings of immortal song?
Gigantick spirit! From a sickly frame
Who shot forth rays of unextinguish'd fire;
Who hung upon the Clarion of Fame
Thy trophy's; — and then left us to admire.
Thou, from the heights of learning didst look down;
And sung thy 'Shepherd's Boy', 
and flocks so free;
Else had the stripling dreaded thy just frown,
Nor thus had poor Alexis sung to thee.
The Boat may glide at eve along the stream;
And the inverted pendant gaily fly;
Music may ravish; setting sun's may beam;
But Music such as thine — shall never die!
Thou gav'st a Willow to the moisten'd earth,
It wept its frailty; and it died away!
But in the eye of Friendship and of worth
It still survives: — the keepsake of a day!
Had from thine hand a Babel, mountains high,
Braved the four winds, and frown'd on all below;
Its vane had glitter'd in the morning sky,
But Time, the conquerer, still had been thy foe!
Twas thine the Themes of glory to rehearse;
And while the vain world's bustle slides away,
The bold identity of Heavenly Verse
Is light itself, — and never can decay.
As I am not sure of your meaning, whither an Urn is to contain,
engraved on its interior surface, such lines as may be
approved; or, whither merely to be a repository of such MS pieces in honour of
the Bard, I much doubt whither what I send will meet your ideas on this most
interesting subject. Be that as it will, I submit a few stanzas to your candor
and judgment, and if I have been guilty of any glaring impropriety trust that in
good time I may be apprised of it.