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Dark is the ever flowing stream.
And snow falls on the lake ; For none the noontide sunny-beam,
Scarce pierces bower and brake, And flood or envious frost destroys,
A portion of the angler's joys.
Yet still we'll talk of sport gone by,
Of triumphs we have won ; Of waters we again shall try,
When sparkling with the sun ; Of favourite haunts, by meander dell,
Haunts, which the fisher loves so well.
Of stately Thames, of gentle Lea,
The merry monarch seat ; Of Ditton's stream, or Avon's brow,
Or Mitchim's mild retreat; Of waters by the wear or mill,
And all that tries the angler's skill.
---------beneath the quivering shade,
Where cooling vapours breath along the mead, The patient fisher takes his stand, Intent, his angle trembling in his hand, With looks immov'd, he hopes the scally breed3 And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.