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When with his lively ray the potent sun Has pierced the streams, and roused the finny race, Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair ; Chief should the western breezes carling 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, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze Down to the river, in whose ample wave Their little paiads 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 hallow'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 surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap, Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook : Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, And to the shelving shore slow dragging some, With various band proportion'd to their force. If yet too young, and easily deceived, 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 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 bis jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, be desperate takes the death, With sallen 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;
Till, floare stream, exhetiring, follous course
And lies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Thus pass the temperate bours; but when the san
Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Muse Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint Like Nature? Can imagination boast, Amid its gay creation, hues like hers? Or can it inix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In every bad that blows? If fancy then Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task, Ab, what shall language do? Ah, where find words
Tinged with so many colours; and whose power,
Yet, though successless, will the toil delight.
See, where the winding vale its lavish stores,
At length the finish'd garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its alleys green. Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps: Now meets the bending sky; the river now Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake, The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, The' etherial mountain, and the distant main. But why so far excursive; when at band, Along these blashing borders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace; Throws out the snowdrop and the crocas first; The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, And polyanthus of annumber'd dyes ; The yellow wallflower, stain'd with iron brown; And lavish stock that scents the garden round: From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemones; auriculas, enrich'd With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves ; And full ranunculas of glowing red. Then comes the talip race, where Beauty plays Her idle freaks; from family diffused To family, as flies the father dust, The varied colours run; and, while they break On the charm'd eye, the' exulting florist marks, With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. No gradual bloom is wanting ; from the bud, Firstborn of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes : Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Low-bent, and blushing inward ; nor jonquilles, Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair, As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still; Nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks; Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask rose. Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, With hues on hues expression cannot paint, The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.
Hail, Source of Being! Universal Soul Of heaven and earth! Éssential Presence, bail! To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thoughts, Continual, climb; who, with a master hand, Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. By Thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapp'd in a filmy net and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether and imbibe the dew; By Thee disposed into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and sucks and swells The juicy tide ; a twining mass of tubes. At Thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds; that now, in fluent dance, And lively fermentation mounting, spreads All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things.
As rising from the vegetable world My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend, My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the woods Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour The mazy-running soul of melody Into my varied verse! while I deduce, From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme Unknown to fame,-the Passion of the Groves.
When first the soul of love is sent abroad, Warm through the vital air, and on the heart Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin, In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing; And try again the long forgotten strain, At first faint warbled. But no sooner grows The soft infusion prevalent and wide, Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows In music unconfined. Up springs the lark, Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn; Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse Deep tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads