The Compleat ^Angler 



Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 



Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass : 



And gold ne'er here appears, 



Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 



Blessed silent groves, O may you be, 

 For ever, mirth's best nursery! 



May pure contents 



For ever pitch their tents 



Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, 

 And peace still slumber by these purling fountains ; 



Which we may every year 



Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 



247 



