But now, of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy tossed, from hot to cold,
And dry to moist, with inward-eating change,
Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,
Their period finished ere 'tis well begun.
And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies; Though with the pure exhilarating soul
Of nutriment and health and vital powers.
Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blessed.
For, with hot ravine fired, ensanguined Man
Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold
Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer,
At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
E'er ploughed for him. They too are tempered high, With hunger stung and wild necessity,
Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.
But Man, whom Nature formed of milder clay,
With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep; while from her lap
She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain,
Or beams that gave them birth: shall he, fair form!
Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on heaven,
E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey,
Blood-stained, deserves to bleed; but you, ye flocks,
What have you done; ye peaceful people, what,
To merit death? you, who have given us milk
In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat
Against the Winter's cold? and the plain ox,
That harmless, honest, guileless animal,
In what has he offended? he, whose toil,
Patient, and ever ready, clothes the land
With all the pomp of harvest; shall he bleed,
And struggling groan beneath the cruel hands
E'en of the clown he feeds? and that, perhaps,
To swell the riot of th' autumnal feast.
Won by his labor? Thus the feeling heart
Would tenderly suggest: but 'tis enough,
In this late age, adventurous, to have touched
Light on the numbers of the Samian sage.
High Heaven forbids the bold, presumptuous strain,
Whose wisest will has fixed us in a state
That must not yet to pure perfection rise.
Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks, Swelled with the vernal rains, is ebbed away, And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctured stream Descends the billowy foam: now is the time, While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile, 380 To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly, The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring, Snatched from the hoary steed the floating line, And all thy slender watery stores prepare. But let not on thy hook the tortured worm Convulsive twist in agonizing folds; Which, by rapacious hunger sallowed deep, Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast Of the weak, helpless, uncomplaining wretch, Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.
When with his lively ray the potent sun Has pierced the streams, and roused the finay race, Then, issumg cheerful, 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, race up the brooks;
The next, pursue their rocky-chaneled maze
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 mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or from the hollowed 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.
Straight as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook:
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow dragging some,
With various hand proportioned to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceived,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth and the short space
He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckled captive throw. But should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your finest art.
Long tine he, following cautious, scans the fly;
And cft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealors fear.
At last, while haply o'er the shad. J sun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
With sullen plunge. At once he darts along
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line:
Then seeks the furthest ooze, the sheltering weed, 430
The caverned bank, his old secure 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 abandoned, to the shore
You gaily drag your unresisting prize.
Thus pass the temperate hours; but when the sun
Shakes from his noonday throne the scattering clouds,
E'en shooting listless languor through the deeps;
Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scattered wi.d the lily of the vale
Its baliny essence breathes, where cowslips hang 445
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the shade:
Or lie reclined beneath yon spreading ash,
Hung o'er the steep; whence, borne on liquid wing,
The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk, 450
High in the beetling cliff, his eyry builds.
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Through rural scenes; such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of song,
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:
Or by the vocal woods and waters lulled,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,
Confused, of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wandering images of things,
Sooth every gust of passion into peace;
All but the swellings of the softened heart,
That weaken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.
Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Muse
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint 465
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
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
Tinged with so many colors; and whose power,
To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, those aromatic gales,
That inexhaustive flow continual round?
Yet, though successless, will the toil delight.
Cone then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts Have felt the raptures of refining love;
And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song! 480 Formed by the Graces, loveliness itself'
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mixed,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart;
O, come! and while the rosy-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 loved bosom that improves their sweets. 491
See, where the winding vale its lavish stores,
Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks
The latent rill, scarce oozing through 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 blossomed beans. Arabia cannot boast
A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence
Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravished soul Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Full of fresh verdure and unnumbered flowers,
The negligence of Nature, wide and wild;
Where, undisguised by mimic Art, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Through the soft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;
And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare
And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.
The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,
At length the finished garden to the view
Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.
Snatched through the verdant maze, the hurried eye
Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk
Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day
Falls on the lengthened gloom, protracted sweeps;
Now meets the bending sky; the river now
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