From that far isle the thresher's flail
Strikes close upon the ear; The leaping fish, the swinging sail Of yonder sloop, sound near.
The parting sun sends out a glow Across the placid bay, Touching with glory all the show. A breeze! Up helm! Away!
Careening to the wind, they reach, With laugh and call, the shore. hey've left their footprints on the beach, But them I hear no more.
THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE. SING, Sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Meet the morn upon the lea; Are the emeralds of the spring
On the angler's trysting-tree? Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me! Are there buds on our willow-tree? Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Have you met the honey-bee, Circling upon rapid wing,
Round the angler's trysting-tree? Up, sweet thrushes, up and see! Are there bees at our willow-tree? Birds and bees at the trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Are the fountains gushing free? Is the south-wind wandering
Through the angler's trysting-tree? Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me! Is there wind up our willow-tree? Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Wile us with a merry glee
To the flowery haunts of spring, – To the angler's trysting-tree. Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?
THOMAS TOD STODDARD.
IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares, Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldlings' sports,
If the sun's excessive heat
Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter; Where, in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace,
We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging ;
We are still contented.
Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow; Where we may
Think and pray,
Before death
Stops our breath;
Other joys
Are but toys,
And to be lamented.
I IN these flowery meads would be,
These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice,
Sit here, and see the turtle-dove
Court his chaste mate to acts of love;
Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind Breathe health and plenty; please my mind, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers;
Here, hear my Kenna sing a song: There, see a blackbird feed her young,
Or a laverock build her nest;
Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitched thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love.
Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice;
Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat; There see the sun both rise and set; There bid good morning to next day;
There meditate my time away;
And angle on; and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
"Kenna," the name of his supposed mistress, seems to ham been formed from the name of his wife, which was Ken.
FROM "THE SEASONS: SPRING."
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. If yet too young, and easily deceived, A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream The speckled infant throw. But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behooves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly;
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, With sullen plunge. At once he darts along, Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line; Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The caverned bank, his old secure abode; And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage; Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandoned, to the shore You gayly drag your unresisting prize.
BUT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand, Swinging his rod with skilful hand; The fly at the end of his gossamer line Swims through the sun like a summer moth, Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,
It touches the pool beyond the froth. A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook Darts from his covert and seizes the hook. Swift spins the reel; with easy slip The line pays out, and the rod, like a whip,
Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,
Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim, Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings The spray from the flash of his finny wings; Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright, Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge, Till beached at last on the sandy marge, Where he dies with the hues of the morning light, While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright. The angler in his basket lays The constellation, and goes his ways.
How many a time have I Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, The wave all roughened; with a swimmer's stroke
Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er The waves as they arose, and prouder still In wantonness of spirit, plunging down The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen By those above, till they waxed fearful; then Returning with my grasp full of such tokens As showed that I had searched the deep; exult- ing,
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep
The long-suspended breath, again I spurned The foam which broke around me, and pursued My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then.
FROM "THE SEASONS: SUMMER."
Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal
A sandy bottom shows. A while he stands Gazing th' inverted landscape, half afraid To meditate the blue profound below; Then plunges headlong down the circling flood. His ebon tresses and his rosy cheek Instant emerge; and through the obedient wave, At each short breathing by his lip repelled, With arms and legs according well, he makes, As humor leads, an easy-winding path ; While from his polished sides a dewy light Effuses on the pleased spectators round.
This is the purest exercise of health, The kind refresher of the summer-heats; Nor, when cold winter keens the brightening. flood,
Would I weak-shivering linger on the brink. Thus life redoubles, and is oft preserved, By the bold swimmer, in the swift elapse Of accident disastrous. Hence the limbs Knit into force; and the same Roman arm, That rose victorious o'er the conquered earth, First learned, while tender, to subdue the wave. Even from the body's purity, the mind Receives a secret sympathetic aid.
Roguish archers, I'll be bound, Little heeding whom they wound; See them, with capricious pranks, Ploughing now the drifted banks; Jingle, jingle, mid the glee
Who among them cares for me? Jingle, jingle, on they go, Capes and bonnets white with snow, Not a single robe they fold To protect them from the cold; Jingle, jingle, mid the storm, Fun and frolic keep them warm ; Jingle, jingle, down the hills, O'er the meadows, past the mills, Now 't is slow, and now 't is fast; Winter will not always last. Jingle, jingle, clear the way! 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh.
Through thick and thin, both over bank and bush, | Hunting is the noblest exercise, In hope her to attain by hook or crook.
Faerie Queene, Book iii. Cant. i.
The intent and not the deed
Makes men laborious, active, wise, Brings health, and doth the spirits delight, It helps the hearing and the sight; It teacheth arts that never slip
Is in our power; and therefore who dares greatly The memory, good horsemanship,
Does greatly.
Barbarossa.
"Stand, Bayard, stand!" The steed obeyed, With arching neck and bended head, And glancing eye, and quivering ear, As if he loved his lord to hear.
No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid, No grasp upon the saddle laid,
But wreathed his left hand in the mane, And lightly bounded from the plain, Turned on the horse his armèd heel, And stirred his courage with the steel. Bounded the fiery steed in air, The rider sate erect and fair,
Then, like a bolt from steel cross-bow Forth launched, along the plain they go.
The Lady of the Lake, Cant. v.
After many strains and heaves,
He got up to the saddle eaves, From whence he vaulted into th' seat With so much vigor, strength, and heat, That he had almost tumbled over With his own weight, but did recover, By laying hold of tail and mane, Which oft he used instead of rein.
Search, sharpness, courage and defence, And chaseth all ill habits hence. Masques.
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