Smiling river, smiling river,
On thy bosom sun-beams play;
Though they're fleeting and retreating,
Thou hast more deceit than they.
In they channel, in thy channel,
Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,
Deep immersed, and unhearsed,
Lies young Edward's corse: his bones.
Ever whitening, ever whitening,
As thy waves against them dash;
What thy torrent, in the current,
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.
As if senseless, as if senseless
Things had feeling in this case;
What so blindly, and unkindly,
It destroy'd, it now does grace.
-To a River in Which a Child Was Drowned by Charles Lamb