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138 SONGS, ETC. |
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THE HEALTHYNESS OF ANGLING.
But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale,
Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue,
Not less delightful the prolifiic stream
Afford. The crystal rivelet that o'er
A stony channel rolls its rapid surge,
Swarms with the silver fry, Such through the bounds
Of pastoral Stafford runs the brawling Trent;
Such Eden, spring from Cumbria mountains, such
The Esk o'erhung with wood ; and such the stream,
On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air;
Liddal till now, except in doric lays,
Tuned to her murmurs by her love—such swains,
Unknown in song; though not a purer stream,
Through woods more flowery, more romantic groves,
Rolls toward the Western main ; hail sacred flood,
May still thy hospitable swains be blest
In rural innocence ; thy mountains still
Teem with the fleecy race ; thy tuneful woods
For ever flourish ; and thy vales look gay
With planted meadows, and the golden grain !
Oft with thy blooming sons, when life was new,
Sportive and petulant, and charmed with toys, *
In thy transparent eddies have I laved :
Oft traced with patient steps thy fairy banks,
With the well-imitated fly to hook
The eager trout, and with the slender line
And yielding rod solicit to the share
The struggling panting prey ; while vernal clouds— |
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