Adieu each mantling, fragrant flood,
Untaught to murmur or to flow:
Adieu the [1]music of the mud,
That sooths at eve the patient lover's woe,
And wakes to sprighther thoughts the painful poet's blood.
With looks so frosty, and with steps so tame,
Ye careful nymphs, ye household things, adieu;
Not once ye taught me love's or friendship's flame,
And where is he that ever taught it you?
And ye, the sloe-ey'd fathers of the land,
With whom dominion lurks from hand to hand,
Unown'd, undignify'd by public choice,
I go where freedom in the streets is known,
And tells a monarch on his throne,
Tells him he reigns, he lives but by her voice.
O native Albion, when to thee
Shall I return to part no more?
Far from this pale, discolour'd sea,
That sleeps upon the reedy shore,
When
- ↑ The Frogs.
