Story of the Bronx e-bog

Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. To The Bronx<br><br>I sat me down upon a green bank side,<br>Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,<br>Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,<br>Like parting friends, who linger while they sever;<br>Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,<br>Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.<br><br>And I did leave thy loveliness to stand<br>Again in the dull world of earthly blindness,<br>Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands,<br>Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness;<br>Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,<br>To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude.<br><br>Yet I will look upon thy face again,<br>My own romantic Bronx, and it will be<br>A face more pleasant than the face of men.<br>Thy waves are old companions; I shall see<br>A well-remembered form in each old tree,<br>And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.<br><br>Joseph Rodman Drake.