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Some morning now with balm unwonted fraught.
Forth from its nook your angle rod is brought,
The joints well fitted, line looked duly o'er,
And flies selected from your ample store;
Not this the hour, the gleamy hour, that brings
That swarm gregarious forth of speckled .vings,
But the uncertain year demands to choose
The plainest hackles and the most sober hues ;
Fresh blows the west-wind on your glowing cheek,
As hurrying forth the well-known reach you seek ;
Adown the mead your eager footsteps strain,
Each boyish transport half-revived again •
Nor yet the trout the swifter streams have won,
But where the earlier shadows feel the sun,
Excursive roave, and in the insect brood
Their first emerging find abundant food.
Light falls your line before the favouring breeze,
Light as the wither'd leaf from autumn trees;
And Oh ! when some judicious cast,
In the fair ripple, brings him up at last;
Some master fish, who many a bygone day
Has turned disdainful from the prey away ;
Less guarded now the treacherous bait he takes,
And wildly floundering the wild river shakes ;
Or downward darts, or high with sudden spring
Vaults into air; again the reel must sing
Till moor'd at length beneath your guiding hand,
His broad gills rest upon the level land.
1850. John Lloyd.