102 ART OP AKGLING. 



FLY-EISHINGL 



" Just in the dubious point, where with the pool 



Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils 



Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank 



Reverted plays in undulating flow, 



There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly ; 



And as you lead it round in artful curve, 



With eye attentive mark the springing game. 



Straight as above the surface of the flood 



They wanton rise, or urg'd by hunger leap, 



Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook ; 



Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, 



And to the shelving shore, slow dragging some, 



With various hand proportion'd to their force. 



If yet too young, and easily deceived, 



A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, 



Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space 



He has enjoyed the vital light of heav'n, 



Soft disengage, and back into the stream 



The speckled captive throw. But should you lure 



From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots 



Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, 



Behoves you then to ply your finest art ; 



Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly, 



And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft 



The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. 



At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun 



Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, 



With sullen plunge. At once he darts along, 



Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line ; 



Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, 



The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode ; 



And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, 



Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand 



That feels him still, yet to his furious course 



Gives way, you, now retiring, following now 



Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage ; 



Till floating broad upon his breathless side, 



And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore 



You gaily drag your unresisting prize." 



Thomson. 



