That’s rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis—
Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream—
Though hardly heard through multifarious “damme’s:”
The lamps of Westminster’s more regular gleam,
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is
A spectral resident—whose pallid beam
In shape of moonshine hovers o’er the pile—
Make this a sacred part of Albion’s isle.