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

And all thy slender watry stores prepare.
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,385
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. 390

When 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.395
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.400
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;405
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:410
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,415
Him, piteous of his youth and the short space

He