Ode to Leven-Water

n Leven's baulks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love; I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent waters My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bd, With white, round polish'd pebbles spread. While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par.

Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze the waters make, By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine, And hedges flow'r'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gayly green, May num'rous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry imbrown'd with toil And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd The blessings they enjoy to guard.