Our drooping days are dwindled down to naught, Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun. And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies, Though with the pure exhilarating soul Of nutriment, and health, and vital powers, Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest. For, with hot ravin fir'd, ensanguin'd man Is now become the lion of the plain, And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drank her milk, Nor wore her warming fleece; nor has the steer, At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs, E'er plow'd for him. They too are temper'd high, With hunger stung and wild necessity; Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast. But man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay, With every kind emotion in his heart, And taught alone to weep--while from her lap She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs, And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain Or beams that gave them birth--shall he, fair form! Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on heaven, E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd, And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey, Blood-stain'd deserves to bleed; but you, ye flocks, What have you done? ye peaceful people, what, To merit death? you, who have given us milk In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat Against the Winter's cold? And the plain ox, That harmless, honest, guileless animal, In what has he offended? he, whose toil, Patient and ever ready, clothes the land With all the pomp of harvest?--shall he bleed, And struggling groan beneath the cruel hands Even of the clowns he feeds? and that, perhaps, To swell the riot of the autumnal feast, Won by his labor? This the feeling heart Would tenderly suggest; but 'tis enough, In this late age, adventurous, to have touch'd Light on the numbers of the Samian sage. High Heaven forbids the bold presumptuous strain, Whose wisest will has fixed us in a state That must not yet to pure perfection rise: Beside, who knows, how rais'd to higher life, From stage to stage, the vital scale ascends? Now, when the first foul torrent of the brooks, Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away-- And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctur'd stream Descends the billowy foam--now is the time, While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile, To tempt the trout. The well dissembled fly, The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring, Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line, And all thy slender watery 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. When, with his lively ray, the potent sun