SCOTTISH ANGLER. 



River ! that toyeth under the trees, 



And lurest the leaf from the wandering breeze, 



It glides over thee, like the gift of the young, 



When he rock'd at the bough where it hung. 



The voice of the city, the whisper of men, 

 I hear them, and hate them, and weary again 

 For the lull of the streams the breath of the brae, 

 Brought down in a morning of May. 



Go ! hush'd o'er thy channels, the shadow'd, the dim, 

 Give wail for the Stricken and worship to him, 

 That woke the old feats of the outlaw'd and free, 

 The legends, that skirted on thee. 



Broken the shell ; but its lingering tone 

 Lives for the stream of his fathers his own ; 

 And the pale wizard hand, that hath glean'd out of eld, 

 Is again on thy bosom beheld. 



He hears not, but pilgrims that muse at his urn, 

 At the wailing of waters all tearfully turn, 

 And mingle their mourning, their worship in thine, 

 And gather the dews from his shrine. 



Tweed ! winding and wild ! where the heart is unbound, 

 They know not, they dream not, who linger around, 

 How the sadden'd will smile, and the wasted re-win 

 From thee the bliss withered within. 



And I, when to breathe is a burden, and joy 

 Forgets me, and life is no longer the boy, 

 On the labouring staff, and the tremorous knee, 

 Will wander, bright river, to thee ! 



Thoughts will come back that were with me before ; 

 Loves of my childhood left in the core, 

 That were hush'd, but not buried, the treasured, the true, 

 In memory awaken anew. 



And the hymn of the furze, when the due-pearls are shed, 

 And the old sacred tones of thy musical bed, 

 Will close, as the last mortal moments depart, 

 The golden gates of the heart ! 



