@media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){}On Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I'envy'd not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.
Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents 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 tyde;
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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