When last I saw thee drink-Away! the fevered Now a glen dark as midnight - what matter? dream is o'er, we 'll down, frown; I could not live a day, and know that we should Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us meet no more! They tempted me, my beautiful!- for hunger's The thick branches shake as we're hurrying power is strong, They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold ? 'Tis false, 't is false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold! Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains; Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains! CAROLINE Elizabeth SARAH NORTON. THE HORSEBACK RIDE. WHEN troubled in spirit, when weary of life, When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife, When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking my taste, And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste, Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer Now we're off like the winds to the plains whence they came; And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame! through, Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through the air! SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT (Grace Greenwood). A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. But when the wind blows off the shore, Utawa's tide! this trembling moon THOMAS MOORE. From that far isle the thresher's flail Strikes close upon the ear; The parting sun sends out a glow Careening to the wind, they reach, With laugh and call, the shore. They've left their footprints on the beach, But them I hear no more. RICHARD HENRY DANA. THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE. On the angler's trysting-tree? Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Round the angler's trysting-tree? Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Through the angler's trysting-tree? Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! To the flowery haunts of spring, Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree. THOMAS TOD STODDARD. IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldlings' sports, Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still, And grief is forced to laugh against her will, Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be. Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see The rich attendance on our poverty; Peace and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find. Abused mortals! did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, And seek them in these bowers, shake, But blustering care could never tempest make ; Here's no fantastic mask or dance, Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. Here are no entrapping baits To hasten to, too hasty fates; Unless it be The fond credulity Of silly fish, which (worldling like) still look The birds, for price of their sweet song. Go, let the diving negro seek For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : Save what the dewy morn Congeals upon each little spire of grass, Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass; And gold ne'er here appears, Blest silent groves, O, may you be, Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains! And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Which we may every year Meet, when we come a-fishing here. SIR HENRY WOTTON. THE ANGLER. O THE gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any ! "T is full of pleasure, void of strife, And 't is beloved by many; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is ; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure. In a morning, up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping; Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping; At our backs, To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure. When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation, Fish we take ; For a bit, Till we fish entangle. We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too; None do here Use to swear: Watch our quill : Fishers must not wrangle. If the sun's excessive heat We do chase, We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath ; Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. JOHN CHALKHILL. THE ANGLER'S WISH. I IN these flowery meads would be, These crystal streams should solace me ; Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind Here, hear my Kenna* sing a song: Or a laverock build her nest; And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Or, with my Bryan and a book, And angle on; and beg to have IZAAK WALTON. "Kenna," the name of his supposed mistress, seems to have been formed from the name of his wife, which was Ken. ANGLING. FROM "THE SEASONS: SPRING.” JUST in the dubious point, where with the pool A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly; And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The caverned bank, his old secure abode ; THE ANGLER. JAMES THOMSON. BUT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand, It touches the pool beyond the froth. How many a time have I Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, The wave all roughened; with a swimmer's stroke Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er The waves as they arose, and prouder still In wantonness of spirit, plunging down The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen By those above, till they waxed fearful; then Returning with my grasp full of such tokens As showed that I had searched the deep; exultWith a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep ing, The long-suspended breath, again I spurned The foam which broke around me, and pursued My track like a sea-bird. I was a boy then. |