52 FISHING GOSSIP. 



With velvet cincture, and the hoary hills, 

 Though cloVn in the midst to let it pass, and smit 

 As with a Parthian arrow, silver-barbed, 

 Toss their green tops with joy at sight of it, 

 And whisper a non dolet to the winds. 



And I, the angler, love it well, and croon 

 Its praises in spontaneous undertones, 

 What time I pace its paths at summer dawn 

 'Ere yet the morning star hath left the sky, 

 And all the world is young ; or else, at eve, 

 My pastime o'er, when through its leafy roof 

 The sunset glory shimmers, and the trout 

 Dimple the violet water with their rings. 

 Oh ! then old dreams beset me, and I sink 

 Silent, in some green hiding-place, and hear 

 Dryad with Hamadryad hold discourse, 

 Xaiad with Naiad, pagan dreams, with dreams 

 Of later superstitions interfused, 

 Kelpy and Kobold, till the rose and pearl 

 Fade, languish till a solemn hush descends 

 From starry heavens, and sudden o'er the hills 

 Eises, familiar, the full harvest moon. 



T. W. 



