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ON ANGLING. |
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ON PISHING IN THE RIVER SAONE, IN FRANCE.
No fairer land can meet the eye, Than skirts thy banks, O Saone ;
Nor groves so sweet, and gardens green, Nor lovelier skies e'er shone.
Thy gorgeous shades ne'er seem to tire
The angler's graphic eye ; When streams gush out with sparkling foam,
And purples fires the sky.
Thy waters play, and flowers adorn
Thy banks so fair and green ; And birds of richest plumage rest,
In wooded copse unseen.
The trout regales in clearest streams,
And shows his golden hue ; The angler plies his art with zest,
Nor need his labour rue.
Thy upper streams, when near thy source,
No richer scene can show ; And e'en when traffic soils thy breast,
Thy streams with grandeur flow.
No angling pleasures can be found
More racy and more sweet, Than on thy hallow'd banks to roam,
When wisdom guides the feet. |
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