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. 



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 length- 

 ened line ; 



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 prise. 

 JAMES THOMSON, The Seasons. 



