THE POETRY OF FLY FISHING. 207 



Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space 

 He has enjoy'd the vital light of heayen, 

 Soft disengage, and back into the stream 

 The speckl'd captive 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 lengthen'd line, 

 Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, 

 The cavern'd bank, his old secure above, 

 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 abandon'd, to the shore 

 You gayly drag your unresisting prize." 



Angling, like every other manly pastime, has had 

 numerous assailants — some of them "men of mark," 

 as in the case of Lord Byron, whose "fine phrensy" in 

 denouncing Walton and the gentle art failed not to 

 draw down upon himself the laughter of a world. The 

 plaint of Lord Byron runs thus : 



' ' Then there were billiards ; cards, too ; but no dice, 

 Save in the clubs no man of honor plays — 



