148 Salmon Fishing. 



Not far from where the torrent in its wild, tumultuous shock, 

 Is broken into eddies by the grey, old granite rock, 

 There stands the stealthy fisherman an arch deceiver he, 

 Who scorns not to subdue the brave by art and subtlety. 



To stop the salmon in his flight, or check him in his speed, 

 The toughest rod, he knows full well, would shiver like a reed ; 

 He can but follow down the stream with just sufficient strain, 

 To weigh upon the strong one's strength, till he turn back again. 



Away, away the salmon tears, as fast as he can race, 

 To try with all his might and main to reach a safer place 

 In the still waters of the pool, round which the alders grow, 

 And tangled roots of trees and rocks lie scattered thick below. 



The shelter of that tranquil pool alas ! 'twas all in vain ; 

 The tightened line and galling barb they forced him back again; 

 But, oh! how changed from what he was, when first with 



fatal spring, 

 He bounded through the torrent at that bright and dazzling thing! 



Nearer and nearer to the bank drags he his weary way, 



His fins, they sweep all listlessly, his tail, it scarce will play; 



When, lo ! upon his startled sight the gaff gleams poised 



on high ! 

 One desp'rate plunge ! it is enough, the salmon shall not die. 



The angler on the greensward lies, dispirited and spent ; 



His whirring reel is silent now, his rod is all-unbent. 



But the brave fish that fought so well the brave fish, where 



is he? 

 Rejoicing in the stream once more, victorious and free. 



