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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 fage.
High HEAVEN forbids the bold prefumptuous ftrain,
Whose wifeft 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, Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away, And, whitening, down their moffy-tinctur'd ftream 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 fteed the floating line, And all thy flender watery ftores prepare. But let not on thy hook the tortur'd warm, Convulfive, twist in agonizing folds; Which, by rapacious hunger fwallow'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 streams, and rous'd the finny race, Then, iffuing cheerful, to thy fport repair;

Chief fhould 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, trace up the brooks;
The next purfue their rocky-channel'd maze,
Down to the river, in whofe ample wave
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 stone, 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 short space
He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heaven,
Soft difengage, and back into the stream

G

The speckled 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 defperate takes the death,
With fullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-ftruck, and runs out all the lengthened line;
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 course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Across 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 pass the temperate hours; but when the fun
Shakes from his noon-day throne the fcattering clouds,
Even shooting listless languor thro' the deeps;
Then feek the bank where flowering elders crowd,

Where fcatter'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 fcenes; fuch as the Mantuan fwain
Paints in the matchlefs 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 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 foften'd heart,
That waken, not difturb, 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 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, 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 fweet,
Thofe looks demure, that deeply pierce the foul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reafon mix'd,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
O come! and while the rofy-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 bofom that improves their fweets.
A See, where the winding vale its lavish ftores,
Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks
The latent rill, fcarce oozing thro' the grafs,

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