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ON ANGLING. 231
Thus by the streams we'll bend our way, In healthful sport, with spirits gay,
Till eve's chill shadows fall ; Then, wearied, home our steps retrace, To greet some dear expectant face,
A joy more sweet than all.
With rod and creel, &c
Mark well the various seasons of the year,
How the succeeding insect race appear,
In their revolving moon one colour reigns,
Which, in the next, the fickle trout disdains.
Oft have I seen a skilful angler try
The various colours of the treach'rous fly ;
When he with fruitless pain hath skim'd the brook,
And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook.
He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,
Which o'er the stream a weaving forest throw :
When if an insect fall (his certain guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling tide ;
Examines well his form with curious eyes,
His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, and size ;
Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,
And on the back a speckled feather binds ;
So just the colours shine through ev'ry part,
That nature seems to live again in art. —Gay.