The Emigrant (Erskine, 1800)/Ode to Leven Water
ODE TO LEVEN WATER
ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envy'd not the happieſt ſwain
That ever trode th' Arcadian plain.
Pure ſtream! in whoſe tranſparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrcnts ſtain thy limpid ſource,
No rocks impede thy dimpling courſe,
That ſweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, poliſh'd pebbles ſpread;
While, lightly pois'd, the ſcaly brood
In myriads cleave thy cryſtal flood.
The ſpringing trout, in ſpeckl'd pride;
The ſalmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthleſs pike, intent on war;
The ſilver eel and mottley'd par,
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges, flow'r'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks, ſo gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be ſeen;
And laſſes, chanting o'er the pail;
And ſhepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile,
And induſtry imbrown'd with toil;
And hearts reſolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The bleſſings they enjoy to guard!
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