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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420370" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Rural Sports: A Georgic - Canto I.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You, who the sweets of rural life have known,<br>Despise the ungrateful hurry of the town;<br>In Windsor groves your easy hours employ,<br>And, undistub'd, yourself and muse enjoy.<br>Thames, listens to thy strains, and silent flows,<br>And no rude winds through rustling osiers blows,<br>While all his wondering nymphs around thee throng,<br>To hear the Syrens warble in thy song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But I, who ne'er was bless'd by fortune's hand,<br>Nor brighten'd plough shares in paternal land, <br>Long in the noisy town have been immur'd,<br>Respir'd its smoke, and all its cares endur'd,<br>Where news and politics divide mankind,<br>And schemes of state involve the uneasy mind:<br>Faction embroils the world; and every tongue<br>Is mov'd by flattery, or with scandal hung:<br>Friendship, for sylvan shades, the palace flies,<br>Where all must yield to interest's dearer ties,<br>Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,<br>And honesty forsakes them all by turns;<br>While calumny upon each party's thrown,<br>Which both promote, and both alike disown.<br>Fatigu'd at last; a calm retreat I chose,<br>And sooth'd my harass'd mind with sweet repose,<br>Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime,<br>Inspire my silvan song, and prompt my rhyme.<br>My muse shall rove through flowery meads and plains,<br>And deck with rural sports her native strains,<br>And the same road ambitiously pursue,<br>Frequented by the Mantuan swain, and you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis not that rural sports alone invite,<br>But all the grateful country breathes delight;<br>Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,<br>And strings the sinews of the industrious swain.<br>Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,<br>Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,<br>Where I behold the farmer's early care,<br>In the revolving labours of the year.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd,<br>And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground,<br>The labourer with the bending scythe is seen,<br>Shaving the surface of the waving green,<br>Of all her native pride disrobes the land,<br>And meads lays waste before the sweeping hand:<br>While the mounting sun the meadow glows,<br>The fading herbage round he loosely throws;<br>But if some sign portend a lasting shower,<br>The experienc'd swain foresees the coming hour,<br>His sun burnt hands the scattering fork forsake,<br>And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake;<br>In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows, <br>And spreads along the field in equal rows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains,<br>And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains,<br>When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake,<br>And in the middle path-way basks the snake?<br>O lead me, guard me from the sultry hours,<br>Hide me, ye forests, in your closet bowers:<br>Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwine,,<br>And with the beech a mutual shade combines;<br>Where flows the murmuring brook, inviting dreams,<br>Where bordering hazle overhangs the streams,<br>Whose rolling current winding round and round,<br>With frequent falls makes all the woods resound,<br>Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast,<br>And even at noon the sweets of evening taste.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here I peruse the Mantuan's Georgic strains,<br>And learn the labours of Italian swains;<br>In every page I see new landscapes rise, <br>And all Hesperia opens to my eyes.<br>I wander o'er the various rural toil,<br>And know the nature of each different soil:<br>This waving field is gilded o'er with corn, <br>That spreading trees with blushing fruit adorn;<br>Here I survey the purple vintage grow,<br>Climb round the poles, and rise in graceful row;<br>Now I behold the steed curvet and bound,<br>And paw with restless hoof the smoking ground:<br>The dewlap'd bull now chaffs along the plain,<br>While burning love ferments in every vein;<br>His well-arm'd front against his rival aims,<br>And by the dint of war his mistress claims:<br>The careful insect 'midst his works I view,<br>Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew;<br>With golden treasures load his little thighs,<br>And steer his distant journey through the skies;<br>Some against hostile drones the hive defend; <br>Others with sweets the waxen cells distend;<br>Each in the toil his destin'd office bears,<br>And in the little bulk a mighty soul appears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or when the ploughman leaves the task of day,<br>And trudging homeward whistles on the way;<br>When the big udder'd cows with patience stand,<br>Waiting the stroakings of the damsel's hand;<br>No warbling cheers the woods; the feather'd choir<br>To court kind slumbers to their sprays retire;<br>When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees,<br>Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze;<br>Engag'd in thought, to Neptune's bounds I stray,<br>To take my farewell of the parting day;<br>Far in the deep the sun his glory hides,<br>A streak of gold the sea and sky divides;<br>The purple clouds their amber lining show, <br>And edg'd with flame rolls every wave below:<br>Here pensive I behold the fading light,<br>And o'er the distant billow lose my sight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now night in the silent state begins to rise<br>And twinkling orbs bestrow the uncloudy skies;<br>Her borrow'd lustre growing Cynthia lends,<br>And on the main a glittering path extends;<br>Millions of worlds hang in the spacious air,<br>Which round their suns the annual circles steer. <br>Sweet contemplation elevates my sense,<br>While I survey the works of Providence.<br>O would the muse in loftier strains rehearse,<br>The glorious Author of the universe,<br>Who reins the winds, gives the vast ocean bounds,<br>And circumscribes the floating worlds their rounds.<br>My soul should overflow in songs of praise,<br>And my Creator's name inspire my lays!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As in successive course the seasons roll,<br>So circling pleasures recreate the soul.<br>When genial spring a living warmth bestows,<br>And o'er the year her verdant mantle throws,<br>No swelling inundation hides the grounds,<br>But crystal currents glide within their bounds;<br>The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,<br>Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,<br>With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,<br>Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams.<br>Now let the fisherman his tolls prepare,<br>And arm himself with every watery snare;<br>His hooks, his lines persue with careful eye,<br>Increase his tackle, and his rod re-tie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain,<br>Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain,<br>And waters, tumbling down the mountain's side,<br>Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;<br>Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise,<br>And drive the liquid burthen through the skies,<br>The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds,<br>Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds;<br>Upon a rising border of the brook<br>He sits him down, and ties the treacherous hook;<br>Now expectation cheers his eager thought,<br>His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught,<br>Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,<br>Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,<br>Which down the murmuring current gently flows;<br>When if or chance or hunger's powerful sway<br>Directs the roving trout this fatal way,<br>He greedily sucks in the twining bait,<br>And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:<br>Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line! <br>How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!<br>Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,<br>And trickling blood his silver mail distains.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You must not every worm promiscuous use,<br>Judgement will tell thee proper bait to choose;<br>The worm that draws a long immoderate size<br>The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;<br>And if too small, the naked fraud's in sight,<br>And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.<br>Those baits will best reward the fisher's pains,<br>Whose polish'd tails a shining yellow stains.<br>Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,<br>Cherish the sullied reptile race with moss;<br>Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,<br>And from their bodies wipe their native soil. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when the sun displays his glorious beams,<br>And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,<br>Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,<br>Bask in the sun, and look into the day.<br>You now a more delusive art must try,<br>And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To frame the little animal, provide<br>All the gay hues that wait on female pride,<br>Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire<br>The shining bellies of the fly require;<br>The peacock plumes thy tackle must not fail,<br>Nor the drear purchase of the sable's tail.<br>Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings,<br>And lends the growing insect proper wings:<br>Silks of all colours must their aid impart,<br>And every fur promote the fisher's art.<br>So the gay lady, with expensive care,<br>Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air;<br>Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays,<br>Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mark well the various seasons of the year,<br>How the succeeding insect race appear;<br>In this revolving moon one colour reigns,<br>Which in the next the fickle trout disdains.<br>Oft have I seen a skilful angler try<br>The various colours of the treacherous fly;<br>When he with fruitless pain hath skimm'd the brook,<br>And the coy fish rejects the skipping hooks,<br>He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,<br>Which o'er the stream a waving forest throw;<br>When if an insect fall, (his certain guide)<br>He gently takes him from the whirling tide;<br>Examines well his form with curious eyes,<br>His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns and size.<br>Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,<br>And on the back a speckled feather binds,<br>So just the colours shine through every part,<br>That nature seems to live again in art.<br>Let not thy wary step advance too near,<br>While all thy hopes hang on a single hair;<br>The new-form'd insect on the water moves,<br>The speckled trout the curious snare approves<br>Upon the curling surface let it glide,<br>With natural motion from thy hand supplied,<br>Against the stream now let it gently play,<br>Now in the rapid eddy roll away.<br>The scaly shoals float by, and seiz'd with fear<br>Behold their fellows toss'd in thinner air;<br>But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait,<br>Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When a brisk gale against the current blows,<br>And all the watery plain in wrinkles flows,<br>Then let the fisherman his art repeat,<br>Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit. <br>If an enormous salmon chance to spy<br>The wanton errors of the floating fly,<br>He lifts his silver gills above the flood,<br>And greedily sucks in the unfaithful food;<br>Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey,<br>And bears with joy the little spoil away.<br>Soon, in smart pain, he feels the dire mistake,<br>Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake,<br>With sudden rage he now aloft appears,<br>And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;<br>And now again, impatient of the wound,<br>He rolls and wreaths his shining body round;<br>Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,<br>The trembling fins the boiling wave divide;<br>Now hope exalts the fisher's beating heart,<br>Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;<br>He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes,<br>While the line stretches with the unwieldy prize;<br>Each motion humours with his steady hands,<br>And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands;<br>Till tir'd at last, despoil'd of all his strength,<br>The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.<br>He now with pleasure views the gasping prize<br>Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes<br>Then draws him to the shore, with artful care,<br>And lifts his nostrils in the sickening air:<br>Upon the burthen'd stream he floating lies,<br>Stretches his quivering fins, and gasping dies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Would you preserve a numerous finny race?<br>Let your fierce dogs the ravenous otter chase;<br>The amphibious monster ranges all the shores,<br>Darts through the waves, and every haunt explores<br>Or let the gin his roving steps betray,<br>And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I never wander where the bordering reeds<br>O'erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds<br>Perplex the fisher; I, nor choose to bear<br>The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear;<br>Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take,<br>Nor troll for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake.<br>Around the steel no tortur'd worm shall twine,<br>No blood of living insect stain my line;<br>Let me less cruel cast the feather'd hook,<br>With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook,<br>Silent along the mazy margin stray,<br>And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Gay">John Gay</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420370" data-title="Rural Sports: A Georgic - Canto I. de John Gay" data-description="You, who the sweets of rural life have known,
Despise the ungrateful hurry of the town;
In Windsor groves your easy hours employ,
And, undistub'd, yourself and muse enjoy.
Thames, listens to thy strains, and silent flows,
And no rude winds through..."></div>
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