114 
THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
upon poor Carlo, whose watery jaws, wagging tail, and 
swimming and wide-open eyes, so imploringly beseech him 
for a benefaction! Then is the joy-bestowing flask pro- 
duced, and the fragrant and delicious cigar ignited. Then 
also he can produce from a secret nook in his game-bag, 
his miniature edition of his favourite poet, and surrender 
up his imagination to the enchantment of inspired song. 
Or if the spirit so moveth him, he can sharpen his pencil 
and display his parchment, and inscribe in poetical verse, 
the beauty of the rare scenery around him. Upon a flower- 
enamelled bank, at the borders of a beautiful stream, whose 
waters rivalled in purity and clearness the very atmosphere 
itself, and whose voice poured out a melodious murmur, 
richer than the sound of the flute, or the modulation of 
the Eolian harp itself, the following verses were composed 
TO A RIVULET. 
Merry brook ! 
Upon thy margin green, how dear the joy ! 
When I did loiter here ; — a truant boy ! 
With line and hook ! 
Thou singest still, 
That same light-hearted song thou then didst sing 
When life to me had not a jarring string 
Nor painful ill ! 
Thy silent strand, 
Seemed then profusely paved with yellow gold ' 
That gold is now but poor and worthless mould, 
— But shining sand ! 
I wondered then 
Why human life was ever like the sea, 
Vexed by the frantic noise eternally. 
Of angry men ! 
It seemed to me — 
’Twere better if the course of human life 
Moved like thy current without noise or strife. 
On to the sea ! 
Babbling stream, 
Full many a pleasant thought of early days 
Is wedded unto thy bewildering maze, 
And cheerful gleam. 
Favourite brook, 
I love even now to pace thy grassy brink ! 
Upon the innocent sports of youth to think, 
And on thee look. 
Your angler is apt to be a more meditative and poetical 
personage than the gunner. He sits by the passing stream, 
by the hour together, or glides about from eddy to eddy 
(if trouting) with the coolness and silence of a philosopher. 
His eye is limited to the peaceful wave; it is never suf- 
fered to wander into the air in pursuit of the passing wing, 
nor is his footstep led away from hill to hill, by the hover- 
ing flock or the nimbly-moving animal. He poises the 
silent and inoffensive rod in his hand, and has little affec- 
tion for the murderous gun. In comparison with the war- 
like gunner, he practices the gentle trade and craft of 
peaceful and civil life. Here are some verses written 
during a too-bright afternoon in the summer time, when 
not a fin would wrinkle the surface of the water, nor a gill 
venture within hail of our seductive hook. At such 
times it is usual for the fishing line to give place to the 
line poetical. If the verse is of a drowsy and narcotic na- 
ture it is but fair to impute the blame to the universal 
slumber of the woods and wilds around, which infuse 
something of their nodding qualities into the bosom of the 
bard. 
THE ANGLER’S SONG. 
When first the flame of day, 
Crimsons the fleeting mist, 
And from the valley rolls away 
The haze, by the sunbeam kissed, 
Then to the lonely woods I pass, 
With angling rod and line ; 
While yet the dew-drops in the grass, 
Like scattered diamonds shine. 
How vast the mossy forest-halls ; 
Silent and full of gloom ! 
Thro’ the arch’d roof the day-beam falls 
Like torch-light in a tomb. 
The old trunks of trees rise around, 
Like pillars in a church of old, 
And the wind fills them with a sound 
As if a bell were tolled. 
Where falls the noisy stream 
In many a bubble bright, 
Along whose grassy margin gleam 
Flowers gaudy to the sight, 
There silently I stand, 
Watching my angle play ; 
And eagerly draw to the land, 
My speckled prey. 
Oft ere the carrion bird has left 
His eyry the dead tree! 
Or ere the eagle’s wing has cleft 
The cloud in heaven’s blue sea, — 
Or ere the lark’s bold pinion speeds 
To greet the misty day, 
My foot has shaken the bending reeds ; 
My rod has found its prey. 
