258 AN ANGLER'S RAMBLES 



IV. 



Counting but for themselves alone 

 The cost and chances of reward ; 

 But taking into no regard 



The future of the evil done. 



v. 



How fountains broken up and spilt 

 The life-blood driven from the soil, 

 Never to be restored by toil 



Commit to the reward of guilt. 



VI. 



All honour to the noble art 



Which into corn transmutes the weed, 

 And turns the waste into the mead, 



The alchemy of hand and heart ! 



VII. 



But woe to those who so abuse 



The license given to scourge and drain, 

 As, in their fell pursuit of gain, 



All sight of what may come to lose ! 



VIII. 



Who of its fragrance rob the wold, 

 And of its wild-flowers strip the hill ; 

 Who check the frolics of the rill, 



And push it from its courses old ; 



IX. 



To Nature's remnant laying siege, 

 And, under guise of tenant skill, 

 Rake God's own garden with a will, 



Committing conscious sacrilege. 



