When, with his lively ray, the potent sun
Has pierc’d the streams, and rous’d the finny race,
Then, issuing cheerful to thy sport repair;
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o’er ether bear the shadowy clouds,
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next pursue their rocky-c-hannel’d maze
Down to the river, in whose ample wave
Their little Naiads love to sport at large.