There throw, nice-judging, the delusive flys
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 wanton rise, or urg'd 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 hand proportioned to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceiv'd,
At 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 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 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 lengthened line:
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weedi,
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,
Even shooting listless languor thro' the deeps;
Then seek the bank where flowering elders croud,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang
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'cr the steep; whence, borne on liquid wing,
The sounding culver shoots, or where the hawk,
High, in the beetling cliff, his airy 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 landskip, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye :
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in a 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
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?
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 raptures 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. See, where the winding vale its lavish stores, Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks The latent rill, scarce oozing 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, liberal, thence Breathes thro' the sense, and takes the ravish'd sout. 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,
Thrơ' the soft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;
And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring 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 vistas opens, and its alleys green. Snatch'd thro' the verdant maze, the hurried eye Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lenghten'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, Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. But why so far excursive? when at hand, Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,
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