Page:The Village - Crabbe (1783).djvu/44

 And from their fate thy race shall nobler grow, As trees shoot upward that are prun'd below: Or, as old Thames, borne down with decent pride, Sees his young streams go murmuring by his side; Though some, by art cut off, no longer run, And some are lost beneath the summer's sun; Yet the strong stream moves on, and as it moves, Its power increases, and its use improves; While plenty round its spacious waves bestow, Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.