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ON AN&LING |
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SONG.
When vernal airs perfume the fields, And pleasing views the landscape yields ; The limpid stream, the scaly breed, Invite the angler's waving reed. The musing swain what pleasures seize— The talking brook, the sighiug breeze, The active insect's buzzing wing. And birds that tuneful ditties sing.
At latest eve, at early dawn, The angler quests the scented lawn, And roams to snare the finny brood, The flow'ry margin of the flood. Now at some osier's wat'ry root, The chub beguiles, or painted trout No cares nor noise his senses drown, His pastime, ease and silence crown.
* Adieu, ye sports of noise and toil,
That crowds in senseless strife embroil;
The jockey's mirth, the huntsman's train,
Debauch of health, and waste of gain ,
More mild delights my life employ,
The angler's unexpensive joy ;
Here 1 can sweeten fortune's frowns,
Nor euvy Kings the bliss of crowns. |
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