John Bruce Norton

The Isis

RIVER, who with thy two soul-stirring names
Speak’st, one of Rhedicyna’s youthful dream,
And one of Commerce’, Empire’s mighty stream
At proud Augusta’s foot,—Isis, and Thames,—
From Godstow, where the fairest of frail dames,	
Ros’mund, with epitaph uncourteous lies,
Down to the reach where the tired skiffer ties
His boat for Newnham’s summer feast and games,
These are the limits of my Isis: there,
Or up or down, I cleft my swift-oared way
Nightly, alone, with little heed or care,
Through the full stream with racing cutters gay;
Oft laughing at the imperious steersman’s shout,
As from his very bows I glided out!