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ON ANGLING. |
153 |
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THE INVITATION.
The rising sun, with ruddy locks.
Is smiling o'er the sky, And brightly shine the silvery clouds
With fringe of golden dye ; The lark, among their airy folds.
Is singing shrill and deep, And with his melting melody,
Has lulled the wind asleep ; While linnets in the dewy bush,
That woos the morning beams. All lightly sit, as seeming lothe
To break the pearly gems.
Then come, my youthful angler, con
And put your rod in plight, The wind is fair, the water prime,
All beckon to delight. With lightsome step and buoyant air,
(Ne'er heed your, mighty dream), Come, throw our feath'ry Hies upon
The pure and rippling stream. Pleasures rare await us there,
We cannot—cannot name ; The birds invite us from the trees.
('ome. let us learn of them.
1825. |
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