|Visit Us On FB
I pack'd up my stores and made haste to the land, Bad Richmond farewell, that hill of delight;
The fam'd London stage being next to my hand, I leap'd in, and was home before night.
ANGLING IN MAY.
The grass is wet with shining dew,
Its crystal bells hang on each blade; While opening flowers and bursting bud,
Breathe incense on the balmy shade. Come down, then, to the river's brink,
With rod, near to the spreading thorn ; And pleasantly the day we'll spend,
By streams that pensive music mourn.
They lack all life that cannot feel,
The glow of joy within them thrill, In summer morn, and vernal sky,
When call'd to tread the mountain rill. O'er hill and dale, and wild and wood,
The streams of light are pouring free O'er earth's gay scenes,—a rapture spread,
A type of angling purity.