Patient and ever ready, clothes the land
With all the pomp of harvest; fhall he bleed,
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 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,
Whofe 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 worm, Convulfive, twist in agonizing folds; Which, by rapacious hunger fwallowed 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, iffuing chearful, to thy fport repair; Chief fhould the western breezes curling play, And light o'er ether bear the fhadowy 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 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 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 fpringing 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 worthless 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
The fpeckled captive throw. But fhould 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, fcans the fly;
And oft attempts to feize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At laft, while haply o'er the shaded 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 fheitering 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
Across the stream, exhauft his idle rage:
Till floating broad upon his breathlefs fide,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the fhore
You gaily drag your unrefifting prize.

Thus pafs the temperate hours; but when the fun
Shakes from his noon-day throne the fcattering clouds,
Even fhooting liftlefs languor thro' 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 shade:
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 scenes; fuch as the Mantuan fwain
Paints in the matchlefs harmony of fong.
Or catch thyself the landfkip, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:

Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And loft in lonely musing, 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 disturb, the tranquil mind.
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 mix them with that matchlefs skill,
And lose 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 inexhaustive flow continual round?

Yet, tho' 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 those downcaft eyes, fedate and sweet,
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 blufhing 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 sweets.

See, where the winding vale its lavish stores,
Irriguous, fpreads. See, how the lily drinks
The latent rill, fcarce oozing thro' 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 thro' the sense, and takes the ravish'd foul.

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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, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.

Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In fwarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Thro' 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 thro' the verdant maze, the hurried eye
Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk
Of covert clofe, where scarce a fpeck of day
Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted fweeps:
Now meets the bending fky; the river now
Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,

The foreft darkening round, the glittering fpire,
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 unbofoms every grace;
Throws out the fnow-drop, and the crocus firft;
The daify, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;

The yellow wall-flower, ftain'd with iron brown;
And lavish stock that scents the garden round:
From the foft wing of vernal breezes fhed,
Anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd