Were taught to blow nor hurricanes to rage:
Sound slept the waters; no sulphureous gloom
Swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightning forth
While sickly damps, and cold autumnal fogs,
Hung not relaxing on the springs of life.
But now of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy toss'd, from hot to cold,
And dry to moist, with inward-eating change
Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,
Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun.
And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies,
Tho' with the pure exhilerating soul
Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the search of Art, 'tis copious blest:
For, with hot ravine fir'd, ensanguin'd 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 plow'd for him. They, too, are temper'd high,
With hunger stung and wild necessity,
Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast:
But Man, whom Nature form'd 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 num'rous 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-stain'd, deserves to bleed; but you, ye Flocks!
What have ye 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 labour? Thus the feeling heart
Would tenderly suggest; but 'tis enough,
In this late age, advent'rous to have touch'd
Light on the numbers of the Samian sage :
High Heaven forbids the bold presumptuous strain,
Whose wisest 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 mossy-tinctur'd 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,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy slender wat'ry stores prepare;
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,
Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds,
Which, by rapacious hunger swallowed 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 pierc'd the streams, and rous'd the finny race, Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair : Chief should the Western breezes curling play, And light o'er æther 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
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
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.
Strait as above the surface of the flood
They wanten rise, or, urg'd by hunger, leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook;
Some slightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some,
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 captive throw: but should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots 420
Of pendent 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 seize it, but as oft'
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear :
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death
With sullen plunge: at once he darts along,
Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line,
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The cavern'd 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 abandon'd, to the shore
You gaily drag your unresisting prize.
Thus pass the temperate hours; but when the sun
Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds,
E'en shooting listless langour thro' the deeps,
Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang 445
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 sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk, 450
High in the beetling cliff, his aerie builds:
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Thro' 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 lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in the 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 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 her's?
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,
To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, those aromatic gales,
That inexhaustive flow continual round?
Yet, tho' successless, will the toil delight.
Come then, ye Virgins and ye Youths! whose hearts
Have felt the rapture of refining love;
And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song!
Form'd 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 mix'd,
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 lov'd bosom, that improves their sweets. 490
See where the winding vale its lavish stores
Irriguous spreads. See how the lily drinks
The latent rill, scarce cozing 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 blossom'd beans: Arabia cannot boast
A fuller gale of joy than, lib'ral, thence
Breathes thro' the sense, 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, undisguis'd by mimic Art, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Thro' the soft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;
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