Gracefully, gracefully glides our bark On the bosom of Father Thames, And before her bows the wavelets dark Break into a thousand gems.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time, Soon as the woods on shore dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn; Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes.

Learn of the little nautilus to sail, Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.

Like watermen who look astern while they row the boat ahead.