James Thomson Quotes
Ingratitude is treason to mankind. .
The stately-sailing swan Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale; And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet Rears forward fierce, and guards his osier isle, Protective of his young.
Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pour The mazy-running soul of melody Into my varied verse.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake; The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove: Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Poured out profusely, silent. Joined to these, Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole.
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.
Whoe'er amidst the sons Of reason, valor, liberty, and virtue, Displays distinguished merit, is a noble Of Nature's own creating.
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly; And as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game. Straight as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap, Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook: Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some, With various hand proportioned to their force.
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, Snatched from the hoary steed the floating line, And all thy slender wat'ry stores prepare.
Cruel as Death, and hungry as the Grave! Burning for blood! bony, and gaunt, and grim! Assembling wolves in raging troops descend; And, pouring o'er the country, bear along, Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snows. All is their prize.
Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!... Delicious is your shelter to the soul, As to the hunted hart the sallying spring, Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides Laves, as he floats along the herbaged brink.