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Here from old Izaak Walton's book again we find such a pleasant picture of a contemplative fisherman's peace of mind that we cannot resist laying it before our readers.

"My next and last example"-the good old man is pleading eloquently though quaintly, for the morality of his favourite sport-"shall be that undervaluer of money the late Provost of Eton College, Sir Henry Wotton, a man with whom I have often fished and conversed, a man whose foreign employments in the service of this nation, and whose experience, learning, wit, and cheerfulness, made his company to be esteemed one of the delights of mankind; this man, whose very approbation of angling were sufficient to convince any modest censurer of it, this man was also a most dear lover and frequent practiser of the art of angling; of which he would say, 'Twas an employment for his idle time, which was then not idly spent: for angling was, after tedious study, a rest to his mind, a cheerer of his spirits, a diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a moderator of passions, a procurer of contentedness; and that it begat habits of peace and patience in those that possessed and practised it. Indeed, my friend, you will find angling to be like the virtue of humility, which has a calmness of spirit and a world of other blessings attending upon it.

66

Sir, it was the saying of that learned man, and I do easily believe that peace and patience and a calm content did cohabit in the cheerful heart of Sir Henry Wotton, because I know, when he was beyond seventy years of age, he made this description of a part of the present pleasures that possessed him, as he sate quietly in a summer's evening on a bank a-fishing; it is a description of the spring, which because it glided as softly and sweetly from his pen, as that river does at this time, by which it was then made, I shall repeat it unto you:

This day Dame Nature seem'd in love;
The lusty sap began to move:

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines;
The jealous trout that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly;

There stood my friend with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the caves possest

With the swift pilgrim's daubéd nest:

APRIL SHOWERS AND SUNSHINE.

The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel's triumphing voice:

The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat-rubb'd pail, and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;
Where, for some sturdy foot-ball swain,
Joan strokes a syllabub or twain.
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;

And now, though late, the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose.
Thus all looks gay, and full of cheer,
To welcome the new-livery'd year."

171

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And now in parting company with the old fisherman, let us turn to our poets and hear what they have to tell us of April showers and sunshine, rainbows and blossom :

The showers of the spring

Rouse the birds and they sing;

If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;
Each wave, one and 'tother, speeds after his brother;
They are happy, for that is their right!

A RAINBOW.

The flowers live by the tears that fall
From the sad face of the skies;
And life would have no joys at all,
Were there no watery eyes.

Love thou thy sorrow; grief shall bring
Its own excuse in after years;

The rainbow! see how fair a thing
God hath built up from tears.

WORDSWORTH.

HENRY SUTTON.

TO THE RAINBOW.

Triumphal arch that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy
To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow !

When Science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first, made anthem rang
On earth, deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

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