SONNET 'TO THE RIVER LODDON'
AH! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since firft I trod thy banks with alders crown'd,
And thought my way was all thro' fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure fky, and golden fun :
Where firft my Mufe to lifp her notes begun!
While penfive Memory traces back the round,
Which fills the varied interval between ;
Much pleafure, more of forrow, marks the fcene.
Sweet native ftream ! thofe fkies and funs fo pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road !
Yet ftill one joy remains, that not obfcure,
Nor ufelefs, all my vacant days have flow'd,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature ;
Nor with the Mufe's laurel unbestow'd
The River Loddon flows through Basingstoke's
only yards from St. Michael's church, were
Senior was vicar. Thos. Warton Sr.'s tombstone
found inside St. Michaels's.