Sonnet I, Written At Cliefden Spring

Majestic Thames, whose ample current flows,
  The wood reflecting in its silver tide,
  Which, hanging from the hills that grace thy side,
  O'er this clear fount its massy foliage throws;
  Here on thy brink my limbs again repose:
  Yet though thy waves Augusta's towers divide,
  Or by the foot of princely Windsor glide;
  Still with more heartfelt joy my bosom glows,
  While memory shows by Isis' virgin stream,
  Where first I woo'd the witching powers of song,
  As wrapt in fancy's sweet delusive dream,
  I desultory rov'd her banks along,
  Nor ask'd a brighter wreath to grace my theme,
  Than humbly grew her willowy shades among.