THE sun hath shed a mellower beam,
Fair Thames, upon thy silvery stream,
And air and water, earth and heaven,
Lie in the calm repose of even.
How silently the breeze moves on,
Flutters, and whispers, and is gone,
How calmly does the quiet sky
Sleep in its cold serenity!
Alas! how sweet a scene were here
For shepherd or for sonneteer;
How fit the place, how fit the time,
For making love, or making rhyme!
But though the sun's descending ray
Smiles warmly on the close of day
'Tis not to gaze upon the light
That Eton's sons are here to-night;
And though the river, calm and clear,
Makes music to the poet's ear,
* Fragments of a description of the procession of Eton boats by the river, and Eton cavaliers by land, to Surly Hall, on the evening of "Election Saturday "—the last poem written by Praed while at Eton.
'Tis not to listen to the sound
That Eton's sons are thronging round.
The sun unheeded may decline,
Blue eyes send out a brighter shine;
The wave may cease its gurgling moan,
Glad voices have a sweeter tone;
For, in our calendar of bliss,
We have no hour so gay as this,
When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes
Of those we know, and love, and prize,
Are come to cheer the captive's thrall,
And smile upon his festival.
Stay, Pegasus, and let me ask,
Ere I go onward in my task,
Pray, reader, were you ever here
Just at this season of the year?
No?-then the end of next July
Should bring you with admiring eye,
To hear us row, and see us row,
And cry-"How fast them boys does go!"
Lord! what would be the cynic's mirth,
If fate would lift him to the earth,
And set his tub, with magic jump,
Squat down beside the Brocas clump!
What scoffs the sage would utter there,
From his unpolish'd elbow-chair,
To see the sempstress' handy-work,
The Greek confounded with the Turk,
Parisian mix'd with Piedmontese,
And Persian join'd to Portuguese;
And mantles short, and mantles long,
And mantles right, and mantles wrong,
Misshaped, miscolor'd, and misplaced,
With what the tailor calls-a taste.
And then the badges, and the boats,
The flags, the drums, the paint, the boats;
But more than these, and more than all,
The pullers' intermitted call,
"Easy!"-"Hard all!"-" Now pick her up!" "Upon my life, how I shall sup !"
The boats put off!—throughout the crowd
The tumult thickens; wide and loud
The din re-echoes; man and horse
Plunge onward in their mingled course.
Look at the troop: I love to see
Our real Etonian Cavalry;
They start in such a pretty trim,
And such sweet scorn of life and limb.
I must confess I never found
A horse much worse for being sound;
I wish my Nag not wholly blind,
And like to have a tail behind;
And though he certainly may hear
Correctly with a single ear,
I think, to look genteel and neat,
He ought to have his two complete.
But these are trifles! off they go
Beside the wondering River's flow;
And if, by dint of spur and whip,
They shamble on, without a trip,
Well have they done! I make no question
They're shaken into good digestion.
I and my Muse,-my Muse and I,
Will follow with the Company,
And get to Surly Hall in time
To make a Supper and a Rhyme.
Hark! hark! a mellow'd note
Over the water seem'd to float!
Hark! the note repeated!
A sweet, and soft, and soothing strain,
Echoed, and died, and rose again,
As if the Nymphs of Fairy reign
Were holding to-night their revel rout,
And pouring their fragrant voices out,
On the blue waters seated.
Hark to the tremulous tones that flow,
And the voice of the boatmen as they row!
Cheerfully to the heart they go,
And touch a thousand pleasant strings,
Of Triumph, and Pride, and Hope, and Joy,
And thoughts that are only known to Boy,
And young Imaginings!
The note is near, the Voice comes clear,
And we catch its Echo on the ear,
With a feeling of delight;
And as the gladdening sounds we hear,
There's many an eager listener here,
And many a straining sight.
Where, fluttering quick, as the breezes blow,
Backwards and forwards, to and fro;
Bright with the beam of retiring day,
Old Eton's flag, on its watery way
Moves on triumphantly;
But what, that Ancient Poets have told,
Of Amphitrite's Car of Gold
With the Nymphs behind, and the Nymphs before,
And the Nerid's song, and the Triton's roar,
Could equal half the pride,
That heralds the Monarch's plashing oar,
Over the swelling tide?
And look!-they land, those gallant crews,
With their jackets light, and their bellying trews;
Yet e'en on this triumphant day
One thought of grief will rise;
And though I bid my fancy play,
And jest and laugh through all the lay,
Yet sadness still will have her way,
And burst the vain disguise!
Yes! when the pageant shall have past,
I shall have look'd upon my last;
I shall not e'er behold again
Our pullers' unremitted strain;
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