University of Virginia Library

The hill, the dale, the woodland, and the stream,
Of various bards have been th'unvaried theme.
If then, of hill, dale, wood, and stream I write,
Will not the sated reader cry—'Tis trite?
The field is reap'd I must, alas, admit;
But still the laws of God and Man permit
The gleaner, following the reaper band,
To fill with scatter'd ears his meagre hand.—
To rural scenes I raise my feeble voice:
O were my life thus subject to my choice!

If heaven my weary hopes should ever crown
With leave to fly the busy bustling town,
In Scottish glen low shall my dwelling stand,
With tangling woods and shallow brooks at hand,
And garden fenc'd with hedge of eglantine
And hawthorn interspers'd with sweet woodbine:
My roof not high, my parlour warm and clean,
With windows small, and learned shelves between,
Where Cowper, Barbauld, Burns may find a place,
And even Virgil dare to shew his face:
A cottage, not a castle, is my prayer;
O may't not be a cottage in the air!
And you, to whom the real bliss belongs,
While I but clasp the shadow in my songs,
Learn, nor despise instruction tho' in rhyme,
How to enjoy, not kill the fleeting time.

When April strews the woods with primrose flowers,
When oft the day is dimm'd with hovering showers,
When cuckoo birds repeat th'unchanging song,
And muddy rivers sluggish steal along,—
The wat'ry wiles now long disus'd prepare,
Unloose the ravell'd line with patient care,
Fix well the hook, then dip the sapless wand,
And throw the line athwart with waving hand.
Slowly it glides down with the dusky flood,
Bearing along the fatal treacherous food.
It sinks—it sinks again—but do not pull;
'Tis but the nibbling of some sportive fool:
Wait cautious till the floating signal dive,
Now gently pull, O do not rashly strive;
The slender wand to every motion bends,
And yielding, in a drooping crescent ends:
Soon on the bank the struggling captive lies,
Then in the wicker prison gasping dies.

But if thy skill such humble sport deride,
Wait until when the swollen streams subside,
Till when the swallows skim along the flood
And flitting zig-zag catch the insect brood.
O'er night the mimic flies arrange with care,
The brown, the gray, the gilded, and the fair.
With earliest dawn up from thy slumbers spring,
Ere yet the morning birds begin to sing:
And O leave not behind th'unweeting boy,
Nor cheat him dreaming of the promis'd joy;
Go rouse him gently, see him sleeping smile,
Then, if thou canst, his wak'ning hopes beguile:
Thy steps he'll follow grateful and submiss,
Study thy looks, and fear to do amiss.
But feigning angry mien, and wrathful tone,
Command the rambling spaniel to be gone;
Then lightly skiff along the dewy plain,
Until the misty river's side you gain.
If there success you wish, observe this rule,—
Where ends the stream and where begins the pool,
Let the wing'd lure among the eddies play
And dancing round delude the speckled prey.
Beware—be not impatiently rash,
Nor fretfully the harmless surface lash;
The limber line with wary motion throw,
Let it fall gently like a flake of snow,
Which silent melts as on the stream it lights
And with the wat'ry element unites:
And still be mindful of the heedless eye
Of the small wight who playful sitteth nigh.
So shall your arts a noble prize delude,
So the huge trout shall snatch the seeming food.
See how he shoots along stretching the line:
Indulge his way, do not his force confine.
Fainter and fainter efforts still are try'd,
Till on the stream floats his enamell'd side;
Pulled slow ashore, he pants with frequent gasp,
And dyes the little hands that scarce around him clasp.

'Neath flood-scoop'd rocks, and thro' deep trackless dells,
Where fairies haunt, (as village rumour tells)
Where oft is heard the boding screech-owl's scream,
Upward you trace the slowly lessening stream.
Begins the sun now downward to descend,
Now more and more the trees their shades extend:
Tir'd of success, and loaded wit the spoil,
Homeward across the furrow'd fields you toil,
Your watchful dog afar your coming spies,
Soon at your feet the crouching suppliant lies.

If to the streams one day you thus allot,
The two that follow to the Muse devote:
List to the song of the Mæonian swan,
The fall of Troy, the much-enduring Man
Who wrought her fall: or, if the Mantuan strain
In pleasing rapture all your soul detain,
Bless bounteous Heaven that form'd you to enjoy
Pleasures so pure, pleasures without alloy.
But long in fields of fiction do not rove,
Nor always lounge in the poetic grove:
Let tales of real life your mind engage,
And search for truth in the historic page.

While yet 'tis spring, I to the tardy team
Resort full oft, and see the ploughshare gleam;
With clay-clogg'd feet cumber'd I walk along,
Beneath the music of the Laverok's song,
The while the sower steps, with waving hand
And loaded sheet, along the furrow'd land.