Won by his labour? Thus the feeling heart
Would tenderly fuggeft: but 'tis enough,
In this late age, adventurous to have touch'd
Light on the numbers of the Samian sage.
High HEAVEN forbids the bold prefumptuous ftrain,
Whose wiseft will has fix'd us in a state

That must not yet to pure perfection rise.

Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away,
And, whitening, down their moffy-tinctur'd stream
Defcends the billowy foam: now is the time,
While yet the dark brown water aids the guile,
To tempt the trout. The well-diffembled fly,
The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy flender watery ftores 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 breast
Of the weak helplefs uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.

When with his lively ray the potent fun

Has pierc'd the ftreams, and rous'd the finny race,

Then, iffuing cheerful, to thy sport repair;

Chief should the western breezes curling play, •
And light o'er ether bear the fhadowy 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,
Down to the river, in whofe ample wave
Their little naiads love to sport at large.
Juft in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mix'd the trembling ftream, or where it boils
Around the ftone, or from the hollow'd bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice-judging, the delufive fly;
And as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the fpringing game.
Strait as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rife, or urg'd by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook :
Some lightly toffing to the graffy bank,
And to the shelving shore flow-dragging fome,
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and eafily deceiv'd,

A worthlefs 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 difengage, and back into the ftream.

G

The fpeckled captive 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 feize it, but as oft
The dimpled water fpeaks his jealous fear.
At laft, while haply o'er the fhaded fun
Paffes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
With fullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-ftruck, and runs out all the lengthened line;
Then feeks the farthest ooze, the fheltering 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 flill, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage:
Till floating broad upon his breathlefs fide,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore
You gaily drag your unrefifting prize.

Thus pafs the temperate hours; but when the fun Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds, Even shooting liftlefs languor thro' the deeps;

Then feek the bank where flowering elders crowd,

Where scatter'd wide the lily of the vale
Its balmy effence breathes, where cowflips hang
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the fhade:
Or lie reclin'd beneath yon fpreading afh,

Hung o'er the fteep; whence, borne on liquid wing,
The founding culver fhoots; or where the hawk,
High, in the beetling cliff, his airy builds.

There let the claffic page thy fancy lead

Thro' rural scenes; fuch as the Mantuan fwain
Paints in the matchlefs harmony of fong.
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:

Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And loft in lonely mufing, in the dream,
Confus'd, of careless folitude, where mix
Ten thousand wandering images of things,
Soothe every guft of paffion into peace;
All but the fwellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.

Behold yon breathing profpect bids the Mufe
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,

Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?

Or can it mix them with that matchlefs skill,

And lofe them in each other, as appears

In every
bud that blows? If faney then
Unequal fails beneath the pleafing task,

Ah what shall language do? ah where find words.
Ting'd with fo many colours; and whofe power,
To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, thofe aromatic gales,
That inexhaustive flow continual round?

Yet, tho' fuccefslefs, 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 thofe downcaft eyes, fedate and sweet,
Thofe looks demure, that deeply pierce the foul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
O come! and while the rofy-footed May
Steals blufhing 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 bofom that improves their sweets.

See, where the winding vale its lavish ftores, Irriguous, fpreads. See, how the lily drinks The latent rill, fcarce oozing thro' the grafs,