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80 SONGS, ETC.
ANGLING ON THE WANSBECK.
The heavens are bright, the morning gale Wantons o'er the woodland vale, Amidst the sweet sequester'd scene; Save by the warbling birds unseen, With angling step, and musing mind, Along the rugged banks I wind, Where sturdy oaks with willows throw. Their shadows o'er the streams below.
The stream is swift, its waters clear Betray the rocky bottom near ; Where shapeless stones, of various hue, And gushing streams, deceive the view, Where men mav stand, and think they see, Fantastic works of jewelry ; Bright gems upon the golden strand, Disposed in form by fairy hand.
Above my head, the vault is blue, The sun has drunk the morning dew, And oft I left the margin high, To ramble in the forests nigh. Confus'd and rude ; yet sweet to me, A wide and charming scenery, In every shade of verdant light, Extends itself beyond the sight.