A RETROSPECT. 195 



Now sighing with the morning breeze, 



Now echoing to the cuckoo's cry. 

 The air is filled with sweet perfumes 



Of fragrant mosses, and of vines, 

 Mingled with odors grand and full, 



From hemlock, balsam, and the pines. 



Charming retreat from haunts of men, 



And city's busy, bustling strife, 

 I long to tread thy shores again, 



There to renew my " lease of life." 

 The bracing ride on stage-coach top, 



The murmuring stream, the village bell, 

 The shadow on that range of hills 



Whereon my eye delights to dwell ; 

 The throwing off of every care, 



The easy lounge, and grateful rest, 

 Stanch buckboard, way-side spring, 



Each in their turn give zest. 



I long to joint my tapering rod, 



And cast the bright and tempting fly ; 

 To see them float upon the stream, 



Or hover 'twixt the lake and sky; 

 To watch the rise, to swiftly strike, 



To feel the breath come hard and thick, 

 To press my fingers on the reel, 



And hear the music of its click. 



