The central waters round, impetuous rush'd,
With univerfal burst, into the gulph,
And o'er the high-pil'd hills of fractur❜d earth
Wide dash'd the waves, in undulation vast;
Till, from the center to the streaming clouds,
A shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.
The Seafons fince have, with feverer sway, Opprefs'd a broken world: the Winter keen Shook forth his waste of fnows; and Summer shot His peftilential heats. Great Spring, before, Green'd all the year; and fruits and blossoms blush'd, In focial sweetness, on the self-fame bough.
Pure was the temperate air; an even calm
Perpetual reign'd, fave what the zephyrs bland
Breath'd o'er the blue expanse: for then nor storms
Were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage;
Sound slept the waters; no fulphureous glooms
Swell'd in the sky, and fent the lightning forth;
While fickly damps, and cold autumnal fogs,
Hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life.
But now, of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy tost, from hot to cold,
And dry to moist, with inward-eating change,
Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,
Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun,
And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies;
Though with the pure exhilarating foul
Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest.
For, with hot ravine fir'd, enfanguin'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 chest the deadly tiger hangs,
E'er plough'd for him. They too are temper'd high,
With hunger ftung and wild neceffity,
Nor lodges pity in their fhaggy breast.
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
She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain
Or beams that gave them birth: fhall 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 ye done; ye peaceful people, what, To merit death? you, who have given us milk In lufcious ftreams, 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, whose toil, Patient and ever ready, clothes the land With all the pomp of harvest: shall he bleed, And ftruggling groan beneath the cruel hands, Ev'n 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 strain,
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 stream
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 feed the floating line,
And all thy flender watry ftores prepare.
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,
Convulfive, twift in agonizing folds;
Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast
Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch,
Harfh 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 should the western breezes curling play, And light o'er æther 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 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 stream, 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 springing game.
Strait as above the furface of the flood
They wanton rise, or urg'd by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook:
Some lightly toffing to the graffy bank,
And to the shelving shore, flow-dragging fome,
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 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 feize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, while haply o'er the shaded fun
Paffes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
With fullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-ftruck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line:
VOL. I,
C
Or fcatters o'er the blooms the pungent duft
Of pepper, fatal to the frofty tribe:
Or, when th' envenom'd leaf begins to curl,
With fprinkled water drowns them in their neft;
Nor, while they pick them up with busy bill,
The little trooping birds unwifely fcares.
Be patient, fwains; thefe cruel-feeming winds Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep reprefs'd Thofe deepening clouds on clouds, furcharg'd with rain, That, o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,
In endless train, would quench the fummer-blaze, 140 And, chearless, drown the crude unripened year.
The north-eaft fpends his rage; he now fhut up
Within his iron cave, th' effufive fouth
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven
Breathes the big clouds with vernal fhowers diftent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rife,
Scarce ftaining æther; but by swift degrees,
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour fails
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep
Sits on th' horizon round a fettled gloom :
Not fuch as wintery-ftorms on mortals shed,
Oppreffing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy,
The wifh of Nature. Gradual finks the breeze
Into a perfect calm; that not a breath
Is heard to quiver through the clofing woods,
Or ruffling turn the many twinkling leaves
Of afpin tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd
In glaffy breadth, feem through delufive lapfe
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