Hung not relaxing on the springs of life.
But now of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy tofs'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, 335 Tho' with the pure exhilarating foul
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 worfe. 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 tyger hangs,
E'er plow'd for him. They, too, are temper'd high,
With hunger stung and wild neceffity,
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 350
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-stain'd, 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 360
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, 365
And, struggling, groan beneath the cruel hands
Even of the clown he feeds? and that, perhaps,
To fwell 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 fage :
High Heaven forbids the bold presumptuous strain,
Whose wifest will has fix'd us in a state
That must not yet to pure perfection rife.
Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks, well'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away, and, whitening, down their mossy-tinctur'd stream Defcends 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 flender wat'ry stores prepare;
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,
Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds,
Which, by rapacious hunger fwallow'd 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 fun 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 ether bear the shadowy clouds. 395 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.
Straight as above the furface of the flood
They wanton rife, or urg'd by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook; 410
Some lightly tofling to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore flow-dragging fome,
With various hand, proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceiv'd,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, 415
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 fun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death
With fullen 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 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 435
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 unrefifting prize.
Thus pass the temperate hours; but when the fun
Shakes fromhis noon-daythrone the scattering clouds,
Even shooting liftless languor thro' the deeps,
Then feek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes, where cowflips 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 founding culver shoots; or where the hawk, 450
High, in the beetling cliff, his aeiry builds :
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Thro' rural scenes, fuch as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless 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 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 profpect bids the Muse Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint 465 Like Nature? Can Imagination boaft, Amid its gay creation, hues like her's ?
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,
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