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Hung not relaxing on the springs of life.
But now of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy tofs'd, 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, 335 Tho' with the pure exhilarating foul

Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the fearch of Art 'tis copious bleft:
For, with hot ravine fir'd, enfanguin'd Man
Is now become the lion of the plain,

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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 fteer,
At whofe ftrong cheft the deadly tyger hangs,
E'er plow'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,

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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 fmiles and looks erect on heaven,
E'er ftoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey,

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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 ftreams, and lent us your own coat 360
Against the winter's cold? And the plain ox,
That harmless, honeft, guileless animal!
In what has he offended? he whofe toil,
Patient, and ever ready, clothes the land

With all the pomp of harvest, shall he bleed, 365
And, ftruggling, 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, advent'rous, to have touch'd
Light on the numbers of the Samian fage :
High Heaven forbids the bold presumptuous ftrain,
Whose wifeft will has fix'd us in a state

That must not yet to pure perfection rise.

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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 fteed the floating line,
And all thy flender wat'ry ftores prepare;

But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,
Convulfive, twist 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,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.

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When with his lively ray the potent fun Has pierc'd the streams and rous'd the finny race, Then, iffuing cheerful, to thy sport repair; Chief fhould the western breezes curling play, And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. 395 High to their fount, this day, amid the hills And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks; The next, purfue 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,

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There throw, nice-judging, the delufive fly, 405
And as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Straight 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 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, 415
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

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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 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 defperate takes the death
With fullen plunge at once he darts along,
Deep-ftruck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line,
Then feeks the fartheft ooze, the fheltering 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 ftill, yet to his furious courfe
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now 435
Across the ftream, exhauft his idle rage;
Till floating broad upon his breathless fide,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the fhore

You gaily drag your unrefisting prize.

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Thus pass the temperate hours; but when the fun

Shakes from his noon-daythrone the scattering clouds,
Even fhooting liftless languor thro' the deeps,
Then feek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
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 shade;
Or lie reclin'd beneath yon' spreading ash,

Hung o'er the fteep; whence, borne on liquid wing,
The founding culver fhoots; or where the hawk, 450
High, in the beetling cliff, his aeiry builds :
There let the claffic page thy fancy lead
Thro' rural fcenes, fuch as the Mantuan fwain
Paints in the matchlefs harmony of song:
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding fwift
Athwart Imagination's vivid eye:

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Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And loft in lonely mufing, in the dream
Confus'd of carelefs 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 difturb, the tranquil mind.
Behold yon' breathing prospect bids the Muse
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint 465
Like Nature? Can Imagination boast,

Amid its gay creation, hues like her's?

Or can it mix them with that matchlefs fkill,

Volume I.

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