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ON ANGLING. |
85 |
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AN ANGLER'S CONTEMPLATION ON A
LITTLE BROOK.
Angling one summer morn alone, I sat me down upon a stone, A little purling brook beside, Whose modest, silver, rippling tide, Mov'd by the Zephyr's softest sigh Was scarcely heard by passers by.
A sunbeam glanc'd upon its breast, And forming thence a silvery crest, Caught my full gaze, and led me then, From thinking on the deeds of men, To view, with contemplative look, This little, simple, modest brook.
Pure and serene thy waters flow,
Thy bosom no rude storms can know—
Shelter'd thy little hills among,
That oft re-echo back the song
Of shepherd as he home-ward glides,
Sweeping thy margin's mossy sides.
What tho' thy station humble be, Thy power to serve mankind—is free* The sportive youth can part thy love, And, seeking health, can part thy wave; The wanderer's thirst in noon of day,
*
Thy sparkling stream can well allay. |
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