12 Fisher aft 



The meadows rolling far their billowy waves of 



green, 



The upland pasture-lands, the valleys so serene, 

 And dearest spot, the little brook that runs so wild 



a race, 

 Its pebbles white, its yellow sand, its merry, 



dimpled face. 



And here my little hazel rod was swinging above 



the brook, 

 The line was cast in rippling whirl or in the 



shaded nook; 

 For here the spangled sun-fish were tenants of 



the pool, 

 Now darting singly in their play, now swarming 



in a school. 



It may be that the angler, equipped with tackle 



fine, 

 With silver reel and bamboo rod, and woven- 



silken line, 

 Who takes the springing brook trout and sea bass 



by the score ; 

 Or brings to gaff the salmon, along the ocean 



shore, 



Hath joy ineffable, and vast success to boast, 

 At Adirondack lakes, or Labrador's pale coast. 



But never may his victories, at brook or salty tide, 



Yield joy like that of boyhood, such glory and 

 such pride, 



Such transports as enchant him, beside the wood- 

 land stream, 



His spoil the little sunfish, his pride the yellow 

 bream. 



Ah, never was such glory, such ecstasy of bliss, 

 Or such delicious rapture, such triumphant spoil 

 as this ! 



