THE TROUT. 77 



Gently moved and lightly shaken, 



Near'd a little, wiling out, 

 Till the fatal hook was taken 



By a huge and gleaming trout ? 



Quick as thought the line unwound, 



Flew along the streamlet narrow, 

 With the sharp and rapid sound 



Of a solitary arrow ; 

 But a gentle effort leading, 



On the bank the captive lay, 

 Tired, and quivering, and bleeding, 



In his starry, rich array. 



Proudly gazed I to the lake, 



And the moonshafts, slant and slender, 

 On its bosom lay awake, 



Like an armoury of splendour ; 

 Proudly gazed I to the mountain 



Voices floated far and wide, 

 From the breeze, the flower, the fountain, 



Blessing me on every side ! 



