SONG.

Reclin'd upon a bauk of moss,
Which goldon butter-cups emboss,
And violets stud profusely;
Beside the trout-enliven'd Stour,
With Pope's dear verse I charm the hour,
In pensive ease reclusely.

Poor Dash alone, my old ally,
Sits in profound demurness nigh,
O'er watching every page;

And wondering much, as much he may,
What case can thus, the summer day,
His master's care engage.

But should Amanda seek the brook,
With sprotive line and specious hook,
To tempt the finny race ;
At once I quit the charming lays,
On her beguiling eyes to gaze,
And soft dissembling face.

She with her treacherous smile serene,
Her sly placidity of mien,

And those bewitching eyes;

Throws out the line with finest art,
More bent to catch a foolish heart,

Than seize a watʼry prize.

Vain angler! slave to man's applause,
Heartless herself, for hearts she draws;
Then flings them lightly by ;

Yet, though I know and scorn the cheat,
Bewitched by all her bland deceit,
I cannot, dare not, fly.

JULIA MARIA.

In days of old, when first refinement's light
Broke through the midst of chaos and of night,
Our great great-grandmothers were giv'n alone
Such humble Christian names as Maud and Joan :
E'en Arc's heroic Maid the latter bore,

And Maud, a celebrated Queen of yore.
But such th'improvement of our polish'd age,
And such the revolutionary rage,

That milk and fish-fags now are Arabellas,
Lousisas, Julias, Carolines, and Stellas.
As t'other day a fish-wench trail'd along,
And "Sprats as big as herrings, ho!" her song,
She thus aderess'd-in acents far more mild-
Nay, Stentor-like, her filthy wandering child-
"Julia Maria !—little imp of evil!

Come from the kennel, come-you dirty devil!"

LINES

WRITTEN IN PENCIL IN A COPY OF

SLATER'S ANGLER.

To the stream let us go,

Where the hawthorns do blow,

And inhale the sweet balm of the vale;

With our rods tight and right,
And our flies in good plight,

Our spirits with joy we'll regale.

No pastimes and pleasures,

No wealth nor no treasures,

Can yield us so much real delight;

As to throw the light fly,

And with quick skilful eye,

Hook the salmon-sportive and bright.

He leaps back and before,

Runs to deeps and to shore,

Then yields up his strength to our skill;

We sieze hold of the boon,

Turn our steps toward the town,—

To muse on the sports of the rill.

1820.

LINES.

How sweet is the breath of the briar,
How pleasant the sight of the glen!
With rod in hand I never tire,

Nor feel opprest like other men.

SHENSTONE.

MY OWN RIVER.

As pants the hart for water brooks,
So I do pant to be

Once more an angler on thy banks,
My river bright and free.

Oh let them bear me far away
From this dull couch of pain,
And lay me on thy daisied bank,
My angling stream again.

Fondly my memory recalls

The valley of my birth,

Where from thy mossy craddle comes

The music of thy mirth.

The summer winds that tremblingly Through reeds and flag flowers quiver, Sing thee a dreamy lullaby,

O gentle angling river!

From the pole clustering hazel boughs
The blackbird pours his song,.
While playfully the tiny waves
In sunshine roll along.

Through meadows green so tranquilly

Thy dimpling waters stray,

Yet linger round each flow'ry bank

In seeming fond delay.

Crowding around thy grassy braes
The timid wild flowers creep,
To see their forms reflected fair
Within thy gentle deep.

Now through the insect-haunted grove
Thy silent path thou'rt wending,
The giant trees in homage deep
To kiss thy wave are bending.

The blue-wing'd swallow bathes her breast
While o'er thee she doth glide;
The wild bee pauses in her work
To sip thy glassy tide.

By well-till'd field and garden,

And egg-white cottage wall,

Thou wand'rest on, while fruit trees blow

And rose leaves on thee fall.

The angling streams run round the stones
Where maidens meet at eve,
With rural jest and merry laugh,
Their unshod feet to lave.

So gentle and so beautiful,
Thou holdest on thy way,
So harmless, e'en small children in
Thy sunny shallows play.

Roll on, roll on, I shall not draw
A moral from thy race,

Enough for me, O angling stream,
Thy pleasant banks to trace.