Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/192

Fair Dove and Darwen clear, Boast ye your beauties, To Trent your mistress here Yet pay your duties: My Love was higher born Tow'rds the full fountains, Yet she doth moorland scorn And the Peak mountains; Nor would she none should dream Where she abideth, Humble as is the stream Which by her slideth. On thy bank . . .

Yet my poor rustic Muse
  Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use,
  Though her true lover:
Many a long winter's night
  Have I waked for her,
Yet this my piteous plight
  Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver Trent,
  Down to the Humber,
The sighs that I have spent
  Never can number.
        On thy bank,
        In a rank,
        Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
          Along let them bring her.