Cherwell! How Pleased Along Thy Willowed Edge Erewhile I Strayed, Or When The Morn Began To Tinge The Distant Turret'S Golden Fan, Or Evening Glimmered O'Er The Sighing Sedge! And Now Reposing On Thy Banks Once More, I Bid The Lute Farewell, And That Sad Lay Whose Music On My Melancholy Way I Wooed: Beneath Thy Willows Waving Hoar, Seeking A While To Rest, Till The Bright Sun Of Joy Return; As When Heaven'S Radiant Bow Beams On The Night-Storm'S Passing Wings Below: Whate'Er Betide, Yet Something Have I Won Of Solace, That May Bear Me On Serene, Till Eve'S Last Hush Shall Close The Silent Scene.