The Avon

Avon—a precious, an immortal name! Yet is it one that other rivulets bear Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear Like this contented, though unknown to Fame: For great and sacred is the modest claim Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go, Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame. But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears, Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears: Never for like distinction may the good Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears.