52 FISHING GOSSIP. 
With velvet cincture, and the hoary hills, 
Though clown 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 on dolet to the winds. 
And J, 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, 
Naiad 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 
Rises, familiar, the full harvest moon. 
T. W. 
