Their little Naiads love to fport 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 springing game.
Strait as above the furface 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 fhelving fhore, flow-dragging fome,
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and eafily deceiv'd,
A worthlefs prey fcarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth and the fhort space
He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heaven,
Soft difengage, and back into the stream
The fpeckled captive throw. But should you
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 time he, following cautious, fcans the fly;
And oft attempts to feize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, 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 lengthen'd line:
VOL. I.
C
Then feeks the fartheft 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 ftill,, yet to his furious courfe
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Acrofs the ftream, exhauft his idle rage:
Till floating broad upon his breathless 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 fcattering clouds,
Ev'n fhooting liftless languor through the deeps;
Then feek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scatter'd wild 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 spreading ash,
Hung o'er the fteep; whence, borne on liquid wing, The founding culver fhoots; or where the hawk, High, in the beetling cliff, his aëry builds.
There let the claffic page thy fancy lead
Through rural fcenes; fuch as the Mantuan fwain
Paints in the matchlefs harmony of fong.
Or catch thyself the landskip, 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 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 lofe them in each other, as appears
In every bud that blows? If fancy then
Unequal fails beneath the pleafing task,
Ah, what shall language do? ah, where find words
Ting'd with fo many colours; and whose power,
To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, thofe aromatic gales,
That inexhauftive flow continual round?
Yet, though fuccefslefs, will the toil delight.
Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whofe 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,
Those 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,
C 2
And thy lov'd bofom that improves their sweets.
See where the winding vale its lavish stores,
Irriguous, fpreads. See, how the lily drinks
The latent rill, fcarce oozing through the grafs,
Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,
In fair profufion, decks. Long let us walk,
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field
Of bloffom'd beans. Arabia cannot boast
A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence
Breathes through the fenfe, and takes the ravish'd soul. Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,
The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;
Where, undifguis'd by mimic Art, fhe fpreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In fwarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Through the foft air, the bufy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inferted tube,
Suck its pure effence, its ethereal foul;
And oft, with bolder wing, they foaring dare
The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,
And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.
At length the finish'd garden to the view
Its viftas opens, and its alleys green.
Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye
Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk
Of covert clofe, where fcarce a speck of day
Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps:
Now meets the bending fky; the river now
Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,
The foreft darkening round, the glittering spire,
Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main.
But why fo far excurfive? when at hand,
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace;
Throws out the fnow-drop, and the crocus first;
The daify, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, ftain'd with iron-brown; 530 And lavish stock that scents the garden round:
From the foft wing of vernal breezes fhed,
Anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd
With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
And full ranunculas of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip-race, where Beauty plays
Her idle freaks; from family diffus'd
To family, as flies the father-duft,
The varied colours run; and, while they break
On the charm'd eye, th' exulting florist marks,
With fecret pride, the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud,
Firft-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes:
Nor hyacinths, of pureft virgin white,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging ftill;
Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks;
Low-bent, and blufhing inward; nor jonquils,
Of potent fragrance; nor Narciffus fair,
Nor, fhower'd from every bush, the damask-rose.
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