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ON ANGLING. |
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THE ANGLER'S WAND.
How oft times with my rod in hand,
In wandering by the stream, I've likne'd the angler's magic wand
To life's deceptive dream.
The sky, perchance, looks fair and bright, The breeze curls on the brook,
The waters ting'd to please the sight, Trout waiting for the hook.
We plunge and strive from spot to spot,
But not a fish will rise— In wonderment at our ill-luck,
Turn up our wistful eyes.
In daily life the same we see,
When hope mounts on the wing ;
Our means to ends may not agree, And grief from labour spring.
Again, sometimes, the day is sour,
And darkened is the sky ; Fair sport seems not within our power,
Though artful be our flies.
But here, again, at fault we are,
Success attends our skill, And fish in scores come wide and far,
Our fishing creel to till. |
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