In vain the Angler tries the common stream,

He finds nor Carp, Tench, Barbel, Pearch nor Bream;

All arm t' oppose the tyrant's hateful reign,
The sounding horn calls out the hunters' train.

Lo! at the sound the hunters gay appear,
Each bearing in his hand the sharpen'd spear;
Eager for sport, by well-known sounds inspir'd,
The dogs range round with equal ardour fir'd;
They try the hollow banks, the lofty sedge,
The alder's roots, and scent the muddy edge.
Plunge fearless in the stream, whilst with the roar,
They make rebellow each resounding shore.
At length behold the leavings of his feast,
And on the oozy mud his seal imprest!

He's ta'en the water, thither tends his track,
Haste, huntsman, quick lay on the furious pack.
Now eager all t' enjoy the scene of blood,
Dogs, men and horses, rush into the flood.
See, there he vents! A lucky jav'lin, thrown
With strenuous arm, infixes in the bone:

He dives, he vents again, one hardy hound,
Tenacious, plunges with him to the ground.
All disappear-all re-ascend afar,

Redoubled clamours urge the wať'ry war.
Escap'd he seeks yon willow's root, his fort,
The dogs close follow, mad with rage and sport;
No longer can the tyrant keep at bay,

See, there he dives! the bubbles mark his way.
Once more compell'd, he rises to take vent,
Shakes his short ears, and seems now almost spent,
Half drown'd he flies to land, but 'tis too late,
The yelping pack proclaim the tyrant's fate:
Now fainting, panting, close pursued by death,
To the whole worrying pack he yields his breath.

But hark! I hear the shepherd's voice-behold His bleating flocks he hastens to the fold. My spirits flag, and aching limbs advise

Rest, and the fare which wasted strength supplies : The nerves, which by excess of toil we strain, Should be to vig'rous toil brac'd up again.

So shall they last with care a good old age, "Till nature gives the cue to quit the stage.

Yon smoking cot, beat by the mountain wind, Harbours a good and hospitable mind; Reg'lar his rent, and annual tythes he pays, His friend he welcomes, and on Sunday prays; Nor turns the way-worn stranger from his door, Receives the rich-but welcomes in the poor. There on good beef the ev'ning I'll regale, And crown the sober cup with nut-brown ale.

CANTO VIII.

TROLLING FOR PIKE.

Time, October.-Rural Scenery and Employments.-Description of the Pike, and mode of Feeding it.—Proper Baits and Rules for the Sport.-A Recipe for Cooking it.Quære as to the Origin of the Angler's Art.-The Seasons improper for Angling, when the Fish are Breeding.Hope delusive.-Reflections on Nature's Works.-The Soldier-Crab.-Polypus, &c.-On the Organ of Hearing in Fish. The Bounty of Providence ought to impress us with Gratitude.-Return Home.