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Sleep on, sleep on, those notes are not for thee;
They cannot drown thy deep and drowsy snore; No joy for thee, in mountain, stream, or lea ;
Thou lov'st thy bed than morning ramble more.
For thee, the angler's is a vulgar art;
His simple pleasure earn thy ready sneer; Well, well, in quiet peace at least we'll part,—
My songs affects not uncongenial ear.
But thou, my friend, with kindred feelings rife, Wilt join the social converse grave or gay :
Laugh at the passing joke, or share the strife, When smart discussions loftier themes display.
Come, haste away; and where the clear streams glide, Armed with the tapering line, and well sprung rod,
Muse on the moral of their lapsing tide, Or hold dread converse with a present God.
Ah ! who can tell the holy thoughts that crowd, Thick o'er the heart when all around is still,
When nothing moves but shade of passing cloud, And nought is heard but hum of yonder mill.
Give me, Great Father, give me strength and health,
A liberal heart, affections kind and free ; My rod—my line—be these my pride, my wealth ! They yield me present joys—they draw my soul to Thee.