AN ANGLER'S CONTEMPLATION ON A

LITTLE BROOK.

Angling one summer morn alone,
I sat me down upon a stone,
A little purling brook beside,
Whose modest, silver, rippling tide,
Mov'd by the Zephyr's softest sigh
Was scarcely heard by passers by.

A sunbeam glanc'd upon its breast,
And forming thence a silvery crest,
Caught my full gaze, and led me then,
From thinking on the deeds of men,
To view, with contemplative look,
This little, simple, modest brook,

Pure and serene thy waters flow,
Thy bosom no rude storms can know—
Shelter'd thy little hills among,
That oft re-echo back the song

Of shepherd as he home-ward glides,
Sweeping thy margin's mossy sides.

What tho' thy station humble be,
Thy power to serve mankind—is free,
The sportive youth can part thy love,
And, seeking health, can part thy wave;
The wanderer's thirst in noon of day,
Thy sparkling stream can well allay.

The little shining speckl'd swarm,
In thy kind bosom dread no harm;
The lily, by thy border side,

Sips nourishment from out thy tide.
Peace-peace and happiness are thine-
Oh! may thy quiet lot be mine.

Bnt should ambition cause thee glide
To seek some ocean's swelling tide,
Thy pleasing powers to aid might cease,
Thy means of injury increase-

Thy placid stream-thy gentle breast,
With ill-sought power would know no rest.

Thou emblem of the life of man,

Teach him this moral deep to scan-
That he's endu'd with equal means,
To practise good in humble scenes-
The ambitious state he would prefer
Increases but the power-to err.

LINES.

Care knows not the lad that is

merry

Whose heart's in his rod,

Whose flies are his god,

He's plump and red as a cherry.

H.

SONG.

Awake, np, up, and away to the streams,
Where the speckl'd trout lies sleeping;

Where the salmon leaps, and the grayling peeps,
And the pike a watch is keeping.

Yes, awake and away! all your dreamings dismiss,
And away with all snobbish adorning ;
There never was sky of such promise as this;
Then huzza for an angling morning!

O! who'd the glorious rills forsake,

And their rippling pools not follow ;

Through the mountain chasm, through the moun

tain brake,

Or down the shaddy hollow.

Then awake and away, &c.

Though the bowl may yield some joy to the heart,

Of rapture, too, partaking;

Yet it never can rival the angler's start

When the dark grey sky is first breaking.

Then awake and away, &c.

Though some still swear no charm can vie
With beauty's glance and tone;

Yet give me the flash of the salmon's eye,

And the sigh of his dying moan.

Then awake and away, all your dreaming dismiss, And away with all snobbish adorning;

There never was sky of such promise as this,

Then huzza for an angling morning!

SONG.

(WRITTEN BY A LADY TO SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.) Albeit, gentle reader, I

Delight not in thy trade;

Yet in thy pages there doth lie
So much of quaint simplicity,
So much of mind

Of such good kind,

That none need be afraid,

Caught by thy cunning bait-this book,
To be ensnared on thy hook.

Gladly from thee I am lured to bear,

With things that seemed most vile before, For thou dost on poor subjects rear, Matter the wisest sage might hear, And with a grace

That doth efface

More laboured works, thy simple lore
Can teach us, that thy skilful lines

More than the scally brood confines.

Our hearts and senses too, we see,
Rise quickly at thy master hand,
And ready to be caught by thee,
And lured to venture willingly;
Content and peace ;

With health and ease,

Walk by thy side, at thy command,
We bid adieu to worldly care,

And joy in gifts that all may share.

Gladly with thee I pace along,
And of sweet fancies dream;
Waiting till some inspired song,
Within my memory cherished long,
Comes fairer forth,

With more of worth,

Because that time upon the stream,
Feathers and chaff will bear away,
But gives the gems a brighter ray.

THE ANGLER.

O'er moorland and mountain, rude, barren and bare,
When angling and wearied I roam;

A gentle young damsel espies my despair,
And leads me by streams to her home.

True neatness and order her cottage had crown'd,
Green rushes were strew'd on the floor;

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,
And deck'd the sod seats at the door.

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied, (Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)

"I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied, Yet take me, fond angler-I'm thine."