196 Salmon Fishing. 



Then onward sweeps the silken line, 



And, like a flake of snow, 

 The dainty fly drops on the stream, 



And circles down below, 

 Its charms the better to display 

 To any fish that under lay. 



How silently the stream steals on, 

 Save where some giant rock 



Whirls back the water from its course 

 With such a sudden shock, 



That thick around it falls the spray, 



Like mist in a November day. 



"There, there he is !" the angler cries, 

 While, gazing with delight, 



He sees a salmon spring aloft, 

 Then on the surface light 



With such a sharp and sudden sound, 



As stirs the slumbering echoes round. 



With lengthened line he strives to reach 



Within the magic space, 

 Where lingering circles still betray 



The salmon's lurking-place ; 

 At length he makes the longed-for cast, 

 He little thinks, it is his last ! 



Heedless of dangers underneath, 



He walks as on dry land, 

 Till stumbling o'er a treach'rous stone, 



His rod flies from his hand, 

 And swiftly, as a flash of light, 

 He seems to vanish out of siirht. 



