164 Salmon Fishing. 



What mattered the strife, 

 Or the caves of life? 



They could not reach him there ; 

 While music he heard 

 From each hedge-row bird, 



And wild flowers bloomed so fair. 



When the sun's last ray 

 Had just died away, 



And clouds came gath'ring round, 

 I passed by the place, 

 And still could just trace 



The Angler on the ground. 



Let noble bards scold 

 At Isaac of old ; 



Long live the gentle art, 

 That through a [whole day 

 In the month of May, 



Can gladd'n a pauper's heart ! 



To start salmon-rod in hand, in a glorious 

 October morning, with the river in good order, 

 the wind in the north-west, and with that 

 elasticity of mind the sanguine hope of good 

 sport, not seldom gives birth to; what to a 

 lover of nature, as well as fishing, can be more 

 enjoyable ? 



How often, under such circumstances, have 

 I been serenaded by the merry voices of a 



