254 AN ANGLER S RAMBLES 



XVI. 



The weapon of his prowess lies 



Neglected. The grey moth invades 

 His feathery stores ; the beauty fades 



From his prospective paradise. 



XVII. 



And languor, such as reigns without, 

 Enters into his inmost soul, 

 And by its pressure, past control, 



Puts every longing to the rout. 



XVIII. 



Even the soft, seducing dawn 



Allures not with its temper'd hues ; 

 Nor yet the shedding of the dews 



Across the carpet of the lawn ; 



XIX. 



Nor yet the rustling of the trees, 

 The conference of oak with oak, 

 That ushers in the midnight stroke, 



And predicates the showery breeze. 



xx. 



A strange, low wind, without an airt, 

 A whispering of leafy sprites, 

 The running to and fro of lights 



Mysterious, through the forests' heart. 



XXI. 



Such held their influence till now 

 The wildfire and the Dryad's talk, 

 The steppings in the river's walk, 



The plumelike beckonings of the bough. 



