On Leven’s banks, 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 wave 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 bed, 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 motled par.*
Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy 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.
* The par is a small fish, not unlike the smelt, which it
rivals in delicacy and flavour.
To Dr LEWIS.