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ON ANGLING. |
275 |
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DEATH AND THE ANGLER.
Thou that hast lov'd so Jong and well,
The vale's deep quiet streams. Where the pure water-lillies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams ; And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing Glances in golden eves of Spring.
Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine
Soft, soft the river flows, Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs ; And in the midst a richer hue, One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue!
And there but lone sweet sounds are heard—
The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead ; Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, There steals a step which mortals fear.
'Tis not the stag that comes to lave
At noon, his panting breast; 'Tis not the bittern, by the wave,
Seeking her sedgy nest ; The air is ft 11VI with summer's breath, The young flowers laugh—yet look !—'tis death ! |
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