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ON ANGLING. 209 |
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LAMENT OF THE COCKNEY ANGLER IN FRANCE.
I roam beneath a foreign sky,
That sky is cloudless, warm and clear,
And ev'ry thing is glad but I,— But ha ! my heart is far from here.
They bid me look on rippling streams, And boundless vineyards stretching far,
But I rejoice not in such themes, And longing turn to Temple Bar.
They bid me mark the mighty Rhone, Which Hows majestic to the sea;
But I feel depressed and lone,
And turn my thoughts, dear Thames, to thee.
They bid me mark the mountains high, Which o'er the running waters bend,—
I only heave a secret sigh—
To Ludgate Hill my wishes end.
They taunt me with our denser air,
And fogs so thick you scarce can see ; Then, yellow fog, 1 will declare,
Though, strange to say, I long for thee. And everything in this bright clime,
But serves to turn my thoughts to thee ; Thou, London, of an earlier time,
Oh ! when shall I return to thee? p |
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