Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/76

 He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream The speckled captive throw. But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the 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 dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, With sudden plunge. At once he darts along, Deep struck, and runs 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 the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage: Till floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize.

pass the temperate hours: but when the sun Shakes from his noon-day throne the scatt'ring clouds, Even shooting listless languor thro' the deeps; Then seek the bank where flowering elders croud, Where scatter'd wide the lily of the vale Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang The dewy head, where purple violets lurk, With all the lowly children of the shade: Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash, Hung o'er the steep; whence, borne on liquid wing, The