42 THE COMPLETE ANGLER. 



betwixt the rocks ; by which, and those very high ones, it is 

 hereabout, for four or five miles, confined into a very narrow 

 stream : a river that, from a contemptible fountain, which I can 

 cover with my hat, by the confluence of other rivers, rivulets, 

 brooks, and rills, is swelled — before it falls into Trent, a little 

 below Eggington, where it loses the name — to such a breadth 

 and depth, as to be in most places navigable, were not the pas- 

 sage frequently interrupted with fords and wears ; and has as 

 fertile banks as any river in England, none excepted. And this 

 river, from its head, for a mile or two, is a black water, as all the 



That it is ten times worse. Thy murmurs. Dove, 



Or humor of lovers : or men fall in love 



With thy bright beauties, and thy fair blue eyes 



Wound like the Parthian while the Shooter flies. 



Of all fair Thetis' daughters none so bright, 



So pleasant none to taste, none to the sight — 



None yields the gentle angler such delight : 



To which, the bounty of her stream is such. 



As only with a swift and transient touch 



T' enrich her sterile borders as she glides. 



And force sweet flowers from their marble sides." 



The account given by Glover (which I abridge) will not be uninte- 

 resting: "The Dove takes its rise among cavities of gritstone and coal- 

 shade, near Thatch Marsh Colliery, between the Great and Middle Axe- 

 Edge Hills. The scenery around the sources of this beautiful river pre- 

 sents traces of barren mountainous ridges, covered with heath, from which 

 the traveller has extensive views, on the one hand, over the fruitful and 

 thickly-peopled plains of Staffordshire and Cheshire ; on the other, the 

 dreary and sometimes stupendous elevations of the Peak. After cutting 

 through the gritstone rock, this small but rapid branch is joined by an- 

 other "stream, which passes by a village called Dovehead, and has been 

 selected by Cotton the angler, and by Edwards, the poet of the Dove, as 

 the original stream : — 



At length 'tis gained, the heathy cloud-capt mountain ! 



Not at the hamlet of Dovehead I rest, 



But higher up, beside a bubbling fountain 



That makes within a little well its nest. 



Here springs the Dove .' and with a grateful zeal 



I drink its waters, that first serve the poor. 



when shall they repose on Ocean's breast ? 



How long must their rough pilgrimage endure ? 



They ask not, but begin their wild romantic tour." 



