ENGLISH POETS ON FISHING. 137 



How glad were we, when, after sunny showers, 

 Its voice came to us issuing from the school ! 

 How fled the vacant, solitary hours. 

 By dancing rivulet, or silent pool ! 

 And still our souls retain in manhood's prime 

 The love of joys our childish years that blest ; 

 So now encircled by these hills sublime. 

 We Anglers, wandering with a tranquil breast. 

 Build in this happy vale a fairy bower of rest ! 

 Within that bower are strewn, in careless guise. 

 Idle one day, the angler's simple gear ; 

 Lines that, as fine as floating gossamer, 

 Dropt softly on the stream the silken flies ; 

 The limber rod that shook its trembling length, 

 Almost as airy as the line it threw, 

 Yet often bending in an arch of strength 

 When the tired salmon rose at last to view, 

 Now lightly leans across the rushy bed. 

 On which at night we dream of sports by day ; 

 And, empty now, beside it close is laid 

 The goodly pannier framed of osiers gray ; 

 And maple bowl in which we're wont to bring 

 The limpid water from the morning wave. 

 Or from some mossy and sequester'd spring 

 To which dark rocks a grateful coolness gave, 

 Such as might Hermit use in solitary cave ! 

 And ne'er did Hermit, with a purer breast, 

 Amid the depths of sylvan silence pray, 

 Than prayed we friends on that mild quiet day. 

 By God and man beloved, the day of rest ! 



Thomas Tod Stoddart, mentioned in the last chapter, 

 was almost as good a poet as he was an angler ; and 

 Professor Wilson, whom we have just quoted, considered 

 his Songs and Poems, published in 1839, "among the best 

 ever written." Here is one of them : — 



" Where torrents foam 



While others roam 

 Among the yielding heather ; 



Some river meek 



We'll forth and seek, 

 And lay our lines together. 



