Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away;
And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctur'd stream
Descends the billowy foam: now is the time,
While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile,
To tempt the trout. The well-disembled fly,
The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy flender watry stores prepare.
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,
Convulfive, twift in agonizing folds ;
Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breaft
Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.
WHEN with his lively ray the potent fun Has pierc'd the streams, and rous'd the finny race, Then, issuing chearful, to thy sport repair; Chief should the western breezes curling play, And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. High to their fount, this day, amid the hills, And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks; The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze, 401 Down to the river, in whose ample wave Their little naiads love to sport at large. Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils 405 Around
Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly;
And as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game. 410
Strait as above the furface of the flood
They wanton rife, or urg'd by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twich, the barbed hook:
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore flow-dragging some, 415
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceiv'd,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth and the short space
He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckled infant throw. But should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly;
And oft attempts to feizeit, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, while haply o'er the shaded fun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
With fullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-ftruck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line;
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The cavern'd bank, his old fecure abode;
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage :
Till floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore
You gayly drag your unrefifting prize.
THUS pass the temperate hours: but when the fun Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds, Even shooting liftless languor thro' the deeps; 445 Then seek the bank where flowering elders croud, Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale Its balmy effsence breathes, where cowflips hang The dewy head, where purple violets lurk, With all the lowly children of the shade : Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash, Hung o'er the steep; whence, borne on liquid wing, The founding culver shoots; or where the hawk,
High, in the beetling cliff, his airy builds.
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Thro' rural scenes; such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of fong.
Or catch thy felf the landskip, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye :
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in a dream,
Confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wandering images of things,
Soothe every gust of passion into peace;
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb the tranquil mind.
BEHOLD yon breathing profpect bids the Muse
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boaft,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ?
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,
And lose them in each other, as appears
In every bud that blows? If fancy then
Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task,
Ah what shall language do ? Ah where find words
Ting'd with so many colours; and whose power, 476
To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, those aromatic gales,
That inexhaustive flow continual round?
YET, tho' fuccessless, will the toil delight. Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts Have felt the raptures of refining love; And thou, AMANDA, come, pride of my fong! Form'd by the graces, loveliness itself! Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet, These looks demure, that deeply pierce the foul, Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd, Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart : Oh come! and while the rofy-footed May
Steals blushing on, together let us tread
The morning-dews, and gather in their prime
Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair,
And thy lov'd bosom that improves their sweets.
SEE, where the winding vale its lavish stores,
Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks
The latent rill, scarce oozing thro' the grass,
Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,
In fair profusion, decks. Long let us walk,
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field
Of bloffom'd beans. Arabia cannot boaft
A fuller gale of joy than, liberal, thence
Breathes thro' the sense, and takes the ravish'd foul.
Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,
The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;
Where, undisguis'd by mimic Art, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In fwarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Thro' the foft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal foul :
And oft with bolder wing, they foaring dare
The purple heath, or where the wild-thyme grows,
And yellow lead them with the luscious spoil. 515
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