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ON ANGLING. |
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How sweet, when night first wraps the
Beneath her sable vest, To sit beneath the crackling fire,
With weary limbs at rest ; And think on all the labours past,
That morn's bright hours employ'd, While all that toil and danger seem'd,
Is now at home enjoy'd.
The wild and glowing distant scenes,
Deep ravines—whistling storm— Seem now, in mem'ry's mellowing eye,
To wear a softer form ; And, while my wanderings I describe,
As froths the nut-brown ale, My wife and little list'ning tribe,
With wonder hear the tale.
Then soft enchanting slumbers calm.
My heavy eye-lids close, And on my humble bed I sink,
To most profound repose ; Save that by fits the scenes of day
Come glancing on my sight ; And, touch'd by fancy's magic wand,
Seem visions of delight. |
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