POETRY.
THE RIVER DOVE.
"0 my beloved Nymph! fair Dove, Princess of rivers."—Charles Cotton, I SHALL not hear, 0 flood of my delight, The voice of all thy meadows in the spring, Or note upon thy hedges, black and bright, The little buds that cling ; Or trace the shallows, or the gentler stream And winding water where the ripples blow, Or mark again the lialcyon's dipping gleam, When I am far and low ;
I shall not feel, toward the sunset* fire, Thy cold hill-water stream against my side, Turning, to face the Champion's last desire, Homeward, against the tide :
Yet if, 0 Dove, before my close of day
I should forget thee, playfellow and friend,— Then let my ghost return no more in May To where thy grasses bend
H. F. BRETT BRETT-SMITH.
• The Championship of the Dove is decided every year over a reach below • Doveridge, end always in the evening, when the water is least cold.
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