An Idle Hour

Sauntering at ease, I often love to lean
O'er old bridge walls, and mark the flood below,
Whose ripples, through the weeds of oily green,
Like happy travellers chatter as they go;
And view the sunshine dancing on the arch,
Time keeping to the merry waves beneath.
While on the banks some drooping blossoms parch,
Thirsting for water in the day's hot breath,
Right glad of mud-drops splashed upon their leaves,
By cattle plunging from the steepy brink;
Each water-flower more than its share receives,
And revels to its very cups in drink: —
So in the world, some strive, and fare but ill,
While others riot, and have plenty still.