Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/75

 And all thy slender watry stores prepare. But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm, Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds; Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep, Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch, Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.

with his lively ray the potent sun Has pierc'd the streams, and rouz'd the finny race, Then, issuing chearful, 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: The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd 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'd 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. Strait as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urg'd by hunger leap, Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook: Some lightly toiling 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