Dr. Johnson's Waterfall

IT WAS, I think, a quiet waterfall,
No tumbling, showy spectacle at all —
An orderly attraction, whose small rush
Was modestly devoid of zeal, or gush.
It drew, by popular repute or not,
A small excursion party to the spot,
Who, in the fashion of that classic time,
Asked not of Nature that it be sublime
But that, unlike the deluge at Lodore,
There be a waterfall — and nothing more.

While in their midst a Poet came and went,
Yet the stream kept its moderate descent,
In truth a course so regular, we learn
It was descending thus on his return.
For poets will revisit, and did he,
Less to explore the wonder properly
Than to recapture the occasion past,
The friends, the London gossip, and at last
The seemly pause, when whose polite “Oh, rare”
Apprised them that the waterfall was there.

Then faithfully the Poet sent the tale
Of his nostalgic quest to Mrs. Thrale,
Of the lone vigil, closing as he wrote
To his dear lady on a Nature note,
A cautious witness at the Sight they knew
“Which I found doing as it used to do,
And,” added Dr. Johnson, “came away.”
If was a tranquil waterfall, I say —
One never rippled by the fevered roar
Of those capricious waters at Lodore!