Poem by Thomas Buchanan Read

The Angler

BUT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand,
Swinging his rod with skilful hand;
The fly at the end of his gossamer line
    Swims through the sun like a summer moth,
Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,
    It touches the pool beyond the froth.
A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook
Darts from his cover and seizes the hook.
Swift spins the reel; with easy slip
The line pays out, and the rod like a whip,
Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,
Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim,
Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings
The spray from the flash of his finny wings;
Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright,
    Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge,
    Till beached at last on the sandy marge,
Where he dies with the hues of the morning light,
While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright.
The angler in his basket lays
The constellation, and goes his ways.

1. Some Things Love Me
2. The Closing Scene
3. My Hermitage
4. Sheridan's Ride
5. The Brave at Home

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