But, should you lure

From his dark haunt beneath the tangled roots

Of pendent trees the monarch of the brook,

Behoves you then to ply your finest art.

Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly,

And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft

The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.

At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun

Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death

With sullen plunge. At once he darts along,

Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line;

Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,

The caverned bank, his old secure abode;

And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,

Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,

That feels him still, yet to his furious course

Gives way, you, now retiring, following now

Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage;

Till floating broad upon his breathless side,

And to his fate abandoned, to the shore

You gaily drag your unresisting prize.

Thus pass the temperate hours: but when the sun

Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds,

Even shooting listless languor through the deeps,

Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,

Where scattered wild the lily of the vale

Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang

The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,

With all the lowly children of the shade;

Or lie reclined beneath yon spreading ash

Hung o'er the steep, whence, borne on liquid wing,

The sounding culver shoots, or where the hawk,

High in the beetling cliff, his eyry builds.

There let the classic page thy fancy lead

Through rural scenes, such as the Mantuan swain

Paints in the matchless harmony of song;

Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift

Athwart imagination's vivid eye;

Or, by the vocal woods and waters lulled,

And lost in lonely musing, in a dream

Confused of careless solitude where mix

Ten thousand wandering images of things,

Soothe every gust of passion into peace –

All but the swellings of the softened heart,

That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.

Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Muse

Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint

Like Nature? Can imagination boast,

Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?

Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,

And lose them in each other, as appears

In every bud that blows? If fancy then

Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task,

Ah, what shall language do? ah, where find words

Tinged with so many colours and whose power,

To life approaching, may perfume my lays

With that fine oil, those aromatic gales

That inexhaustive flow continual round?

Yet, though successless, will the toil delight.

Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts

Have felt the raptures of refining love;

And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song!

Formed by the Graces, loveliness itself!

Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,

Those looks demure that deeply pierce the soul,

Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mixed,

Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:

Oh, come! and, while the rosy-footed May

Steals blushing on, together let us tread

The morning dews, and gather in their prime

Fresh-blooming flowers to grace thy braided hair

And thy loved bosom, that improves their sweets.

See where the winding vale its lavish stores,

Irriguous, spreads. See how the lily drinks

The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass

Of growth luxuriant, or the humid bank

In fair profusion decks. Long let us walk

Where the breeze blows from yon extended field

Of blossomed beans. Arabia cannot boast

A fuller gale of joy than liberal thence

Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravished soul.

Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,

Full of fresh verdure and unnumbered flowers,

The negligence of nature wide and wild,

Where, undisguised by mimic art, she spreads

Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.

Here their delicious task the fervent bees

In swarming millions tend. Around, athwart,

Through the soft air, the busy nations fly,

Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube

Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul.

And oft with bolder wing they soaring dare

The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,

And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.

At length the finished garden to the view

Its vistas opens and its alleys green.

Snatched through the verdant maze, the hurried eye

Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk

Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day

Falls on the lengthened gloom, protracted sweeps;

Now meets the bending sky, the river now

Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,

The forest darkening round, the glittering spire,

The ethereal mountain, and the distant main.

But why so far excursive? when at hand,

Along these blushing borders bright with dew,

And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,

Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace –

Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first,

The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,

And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes;

The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown,

And lavish stock, that scents the garden round:

From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,

Anemones; auriculas, enriched

With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;

And full ranunculus of glowing red.

Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays

Her idle freaks: from family diffused

To family, as flies the father-dust,

The varied colours run; and, while they break

On the charmed eye, the exulting florist marks

With secret pride the wonders of his hand.

No gradual bloom is wanting – from the bud

First-born of Spring to Summer's musky tribes;

Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white,

Low bent and blushing inward; nor jonquils,

Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair,

As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still;

Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks;

Nor, showered from every bush, the damask-rose:

Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,

With hues on hues expression cannot paint,

The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.

Hail, Source of Being! Universal Soul

Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail!

To thee I bend the knee; to thee my thoughts

Continual climb, who with a master-hand

Hast the great whole into perfection touched.

By thee the various vegetative tribes,

Wrapt in a filmy net and clad with leaves,

Draw the live ether and imbibe the dew.

By thee disposed into congenial soils,

Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells

The juicy tide, a twining mass of tubes.

At thy command the vernal sun awakes

The torpid sap, detruded to the root

By wintry winds, that now in fluent dance

And lively fermentation mounting spreads

All this innumerous-coloured scene of things.

 

As rising from the vegetable world

My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend,

My panting muse; and hark, how loud the woods

Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.

Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour

The mazy-running soul of melody

Into my varied verse! while I deduce,

From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings,

The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme

Unknown to fame – the passion of the groves.

When first the soul of love is sent abroad

Warm through the vital air, and on the heart

Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin

In gallant thought to plume the painted wing;

And try again the long-forgotten strain,

At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows

The soft infusion prevalent and wide

Than all alive at once their joy o'erflows

In music unconfined. Up springs the lark,

Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn:

Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings

Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts

Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse

Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush

Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads

Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,

Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush

And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng

Superior heard, run through the sweetest length

Of notes, when listening Philomela deigns

To let them joy, and purposes, in thought

Elate, to make her night excel their day.

The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake,

The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove;

Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze

Poured out profusely, silent. Joined to these

Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade

Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix

Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,

And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,

Aid the full concert; while the stock-dove breathes

A melancholy murmur through the whole.

'Tis love creates their melody, and all

This waste of music is the voice of love,

That even to birds and beasts the tender arts

Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind

Try every winning way inventive love

Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates

Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around,

With distant awe, in airy rings they rove,

Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch

The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance

Of their regardless charmer. Should she seem

Softening the least approvance to bestow,

Their colours burnish, and, by hope inspired,

They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck,

Retire disordered; then again approach,

In fond rotation spread the spotted wing,

And shiver every feather with desire.

Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods

They haste away, all as their fancy leads,

Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts;

That Nature's great command may be obeyed,

Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive

Indulged in vain. Some to the holly-hedge

Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;

Some to the rude protection of the thorn

Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree

Offers its kind concealment to a few,

Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.

Others apart far in the grassy dale,

Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave

But most in woodland solitudes delight,

In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,

Steep, and divided by a babbling brook

Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day

When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots

Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream,

They frame the first foundation of their domes –

Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,

And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought

But restless hurry through the busy air,

Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps

The slimy pool, to build his hanging house

Intent. And often, from the careless back

Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills

Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,

Steal from the barn a straw – till soft and warm,

Clean and complete, their habitation grows.

As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,

Not to be tempted from her tender task

Or by sharp hunger or by smooth delight,

Though the whole loosened Spring around her blows,

Her sympathizing lover takes his stand

High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless sings

The tedious time away; or else supplies

Her place a moment, while she sudden flits

To pick the scanty meal. The appointed time

With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young,

Warmed and expanded into perfect life,

Their brittle bondage break, and come to light,

A helpless family demanding food

With constant clamour. Oh, what passions then,

What melting sentiments of kindly care,

On the new parents seize! Away they fly

Affectionate, and undesiring bear

The most delicious morsel to their young;

Which equally distributed, again

The search begins. Even so a gentle pair,

By fortune sunk, but formed of generous mould,

And charmed with cares beyond the vulgar breast,

In some lone cot amid the distant woods,

Sustain'd alone by providential Heaven,

Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train,

Check their own appetites, and give them all.

Nor toil alone they scorn: exalting love,

By the great Father of the Spring inspired,

Gives instant courage to the fearful race,

And to the simple art. With stealthy wing,

Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest,

Amid a neighbouring bush they silent drop,

And whirring thence, as if alarmed, deceive

The unfeeling schoolboy. Hence, around the head

Of wandering swain, the white-winged plover wheels

Her sounding flight, and then directly on

In long excursion skims the level lawn

To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck, hence,

O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste

The heath-hen flutters, pious fraud! to lead

The hot pursuing spaniel far astray.

Be not the muse ashamed here to bemoan

Her brothers of the grove by tyrant man

Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage

From liberty confined, and boundless air.

Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull,

Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost;

Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes,

Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech.

Oh then, ye friends of love and love-taught song,

Spare the soft tribes, this barbarous art forbear!

If on your bosom innocence can win,

Music engage, or piety persuade.

But let not chief the nightingale lament

Her ruined care, too delicately framed

To brook the harsh confinement of the cage.

Oft when, returning with her loaded bill,

The astonished mother finds a vacant nest,

By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns

Robbed, to the ground the vain provision falls;

Her pinions ruffle, and, low-drooping, scarce

Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade;

Where, all abandoned to despair, she sings

Her sorrows through the night, and, on the bough

Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall

Takes up again her lamentable strain

Of winding woe, till wide around the woods

Sigh to her song and with her wail resound.

But now the feathered youth their former bounds,

Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings,

Demand the free possession of the sky.

This one glad office more, and then dissolves

Parental love at once, now needless grown:

Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.

'Tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild,

When nought but balm is breathing through the woods

With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes

Visit the spacious heavens, and look abroad

On Nature's common, far as they can see

Or wing, their range and pasture. O'er the boughs

Dancing about, still at the giddy verge

Their resolution fails; their pinions still,

In loose libration stretched, to trust the void

Trembling refuse – till down before them fly

The parent-guides, and chide, exhort, command,

Or push them off.