THE THAMES. 43 



And grace, and bloom, and plenty pours 

 O'er thy sweet meads and willowy shores. 

 The fields where herds unnumbered rove, 

 The laurell'd path, the beech en grove, 

 The oak, in lonely grandeur free, 

 Lord of the forest and the sea ; 

 The spreading plain, the cultured hill, 

 The tranquil cot, the restless mill, 

 The lonely hamlet, calm and still ; 

 The village spire, the busy town, 

 The shelving bank, the rising down ; 

 The fisher's punt, the peasant's home, 

 The woodland seat, the regal dome, 

 In quick succession rise to charm 

 The mind with virtuous feelings warm ; 

 Till where thy widening current glides, 

 To mingle with the turbid tides, 

 Thy spacious breast displays unfurled 

 The ensigns of th' assembled world." 



There are, I know, many anglers who prefer streams on a 

 smaller scale, and the liberty of the solitary roamer j but for 

 the life of me I cannot understand why Thames punt-fish- 

 ing should be sneered at and abused by those who have no 

 personal liking for it. If to yield the greatest happiness to 

 the greatest number is to benefit mankind, in the matter of 

 angling the Thames punt must be held in supreme venera- 

 tion as a benefactor. Thousands of citizens, for the major 

 part of the year immersed in the grinding mill-round of 

 business and business cares, thanks to the square-cornered 

 ugly Thames punt, find innocent amusement and healthful 

 draughts of fresh air. 



Yet how easy it is to laugh at the spectacle, say, of those 

 three stout gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves, sitting cosily in 

 Windsor chairs, engaged throughout the livelong day in 

 jerking back to their feet the gaily-coloured float which. 



