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In luscious ftreams, and lent us your own coat
Against the winter's cold? and the plain ox,
That harmless, honest, guileless 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
Even of the clown he feeds? And that perhaps
To fwell the rio of the 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.

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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.
Befides, who knows, how rais'd to higher life,
From ftage to ftage, the vital scale afcends?

Now, when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away;
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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 elaftic fp.ing. 385
Snatch'd from the hoary feed the floating line,
And all thy flender watry flores prepare.
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,
Convulfive, twift in agonizing folds;
Which, by rapacious hunger fwallow'd deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast
Of the weak helplefs uncomplaining wretch,
Harth pain and horror to the tender hand.

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When with his lively ray the potent fun Has pierc'd the ftreams, and rous'd the finny race, Then, iffuing chearful, to thy fport repair ; Chief fhould the western breezes curling play, 395 And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. High to the r 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 400

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 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 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,

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Soft difengage, and back into the stream.
The fpeckled infant throw. But should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots 423
Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your fineft art.

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Long time he, following cautious, fcans the fly; And oft attempts to feize it, but as oft The dimpled water fpeaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the fhaded fun Pafles 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 farthest ooze,the sheltering weed,43* 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 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.

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Thus pafs the temperate hours: but when the fun,

S..akes

Shakes from his `noon-day throne the scattering
Even shooting liftlefs languorthro' the deeps; [clouds,
Then feek the bank where flowering elders croud,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale

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Its balmy effence breathes, where cowflips hang

The dewy head, where purple v olets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the fhade:
Or lic reclin'd beneath yon fpreading afh,

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Hung o'er the steep; 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

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Thro' rural fcenes; fuch has the Mantuan fwain
Paints in the matchlefs harmony of fong.
Or catch thyself the landkip, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And loft in lonely mufing, in a 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 profpect bids the Muse
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like her's?
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 talk,

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Ah, what thall language do? Ah, where find words
Ting'd with fo many colours; and whofe 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, whofe hearts
Have felt the raptures of refining love;

And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my fong!

Form'd by the graces, loveliness itself;

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Come with thofe downcaft eyes, fedate and fweet,

Thofe

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Thofe looks demure, that deeply pierce the foul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
Oh 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 fweets. 491
Sec, where the winding valê 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 fenfe, and takes the ravish'd soul.
Nor is the mead unworthy of thy font,

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Full of freth verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,
The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;
Where undifguis'd by mimic Art, the fpreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.

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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,

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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 lufcious fpoil.

At length the finish'd garden to the view
Its viftas opens, and its alleys green.
Snatch'd thro' the verdant maze,

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the hurried eye Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk Of eovert close, where scarce a fpeck of day, Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted fweeps: Now meets the bend ng fky: the river now Dimpling along, the breezy-ruffed lake The forest 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, 525

And

And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair handed Spring unbofoms every grace;
Throws out the fnow-drop, and the crocus first;
The daify, primrofe, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd des ;

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The yellow wall-flower, ftain'd with iron brown: And lavish stock that fcents the garden round. From the foft w ng of vernal breezes thed,

Anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd

With thining meal o'er all their velvet leaves; 535
And full ranunculas, of growing red.

Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays
Her idle freaks; from family diffus'd

To family. as flies the father-duft,

The varied colours run; and, while they break 540
On the charm'd eyc, th' exulting florift marks,
With fecret pride, the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud.
First born of Sarng, to Summer's musky tribes:
Nor yacinths of pureft virgin white,

Low-bent, and blufhing inward; nor jonquils, 545
Of potent fragrance; nor Narciffus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging ftill;
Nor broad carnations; nor gay-fpotted pinks;
Nor, flower'd from every buth, the damask-rofe.
Infinite numbers, delicacies, fmells,

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With hues on hues expreffion cannot paint,
The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.
Hail, Source of Being! univerfai Soul
Of Heaven and earth! Effential Prefence, hail!
To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thoughts,
Cóntinual, climb; who, with a mafter-hand,
Haft the great whole into perfection touch'd.
By Thee the various vegetative tribes,

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Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves,
Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew:

By Thee difpos'd into congenial foils,

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Stands each attractive plant, and fucks, and fwells
The juicy tide; a twining mafs of tubes.

At Thy command the vernal fun awakes
The torpid fap, detruded to the root

By wintry winds; that now in fluent dance,

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And

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