142 BEST'S ART OF ANGLING. 



Harsh pain and horror to ihe tender hand. 



When with his lively ray the potent sun 



lias pierced the streams, and rous'd the finny race, 



Then, issuing cheerful to thy sport repair; 



Chief should the western breezes curling play, 



And light o'er ether-bear the shadowy clouds. 



High to their fount, this day, amid the hills 



And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks; 



Then next pursue their rocky channePd maze 



Down to the river in whose ample wave 



Their little naiads love to sport at large. 



Just in the dubious point, where with the pool 



Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils 



Around the stone, or from the hollow bank 



Reverted plays in undulating flow, 



There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly, 



And as you lead it round in artful curve, 



With eye attentive mark the springing game. 



Straight as above the surface of the flood 



They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap, 



Then fix with gentle twitch the barbed hook: 



Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, 



And to the shelving shore slow dragging some, 



With various hand, proportion'd to their force. 



If yet too young, and easily deceiv'd, 



A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, 



Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space 



He has enjoy'd the vital light of heav'n, 



Soft disengage, and back into the stream 



The speckled captive throw 5 but -should you lure 



From his dark haunt, beneath tire tangled roots 



Of pendant 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 dimpl'd water speaks his jealous fear: 



At last, while haply over the shaded sun 



Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death 



With sullen plunge : at once he darts along, 



Deep struck, and rur.s out all the lengthen'd line, 



Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, 



The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode; 



,And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, 



Indignant of ihe guile. With yielding hand, 



That feels him still, yet to his furious course 



