And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies;
Tho' with the pure exhilarating foul
Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blefs'd.
For, with hot ravine fir'd, infanguin'd man
Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. 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 cheft the deadly tyger hangs,
E'er plow'd for him. They too are temper'd high,
With hunger stung and wild necessity,
Nor lodges pity in their fhaggy breaft.
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 ftoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey,
Blood-ftain'd, deferves 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
Against the winter's cold? And the plain ox,
That harmless, honeft, guilelefs animal,
In what has he offended? he, whofe toil,
Patient and ever-ready, clothes the land
With all the pomp of harveft; 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,
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Won by his labour? Thus the feeling heart
Would tenderly suggest: but 'tis enough,
In this late age, adventurous, to have touch'd
Light on the numbers of the Samian sage.
High HEAVEN forbids the bold prefumptuous ftrain,
Whose wifeft will has fix'd us in a ftate
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 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-diffembled fly,
The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy flender watery stores 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 ftreanis, and rouz'd the finny race,
Then, iffuing chearful, to thy sport repair;
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o'er aether bear the shadowy clouds. 395
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills,
And woodlands warbling round, trace up
The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze,
Down to the river, in whose ample wave
Their little naiads love to sport 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 delusive fly; lead it round in artful curve,
And as you
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: 410
Some lightly toffing to the graffy bank,
And to the fhelving fhore flow-dragging some,
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily 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 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 fpeaks his jealous fear.
At laft, while haply o'er the fhaded fun
Paffes 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 feeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, 430
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 stream, exhaust his idle rage:
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Till floating broad upon his breathless fide,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore
You gaily drag your unresisting 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 croud,
Where, fcatter'd wild, the lily of the vale
Its balmy effence breathes, where cowflips hang 445
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the fhade:
Or ly reclin❜d beneath yon fpreading 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 airy builds.
There let the claffic page thy fancy lead
Thro' rural fcenes; fuch as the Mantuan fwain
Paints in the matchlefs 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 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 softened heart,
That waken, not difturb, the tranquil mind.
Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Mufe
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint 465
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 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 fông! 480 Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself!
Come with those downcaft eyes, fedate and fweet,
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the foul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reafon mix'd,
Shines lively fancy, and the feeling heart:
Oh 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 sweets. 490
See where the winding vale its lavish ftores,.
Itriguous, 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 soul.
Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Eull of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,
The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;
Where, undifguis'd by mimic Art, the spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
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