Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

Below me in the valley, deep and green As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions, Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent!

I knew you must be edified by the margent

A good, brave man hath walked aforetime on your margent, himself as bright, and usefull, and delightsome as you, sweet river.

for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margent with interpretations and load the memory with doubtfulnesse: but hee commeth to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with, or prepared for, the well-inchaunting skill of Musicke; and with a tale forsooth he commeth unto you: with a tale which holdeth children from play and old men from the chimney-corner.

We may measure the distance between imagination and fancy, if we will compare these little filagree creatures with Shakspere's elves, whose occupation it was To tread the ooze of the salt deep, Or run upon the sharp wind of the north,... Or on the beached margent of the sea To dance their ringlets to the whispering wind.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace, Who, foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

She looks to left, she looks to right, and in the midst she sees A little pool of water clear and frozen 'neath the trees; Then down beside its margent in the crusty snow she kneels, And hears a magic belfry a-ringing with sweet bells.

We have the song: Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet imbroider'd vale Where the love-lorn Nightingale Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.

The little white town, crouched down by the "beached margent" of the bay, winks with its glittering windows and dozes in the sunshine.