ANGLER.
When smiling in the pride of May,
The meads are green, the blossoms gay,
When fleecy clouds the sky adorn,
Across the dew-bespangled lawn,
The angler hies with nimble pace,
Eager to snare the finny race.
The glowing landscape charms his eyes,
Within his ardent bosom rise
Fond hopes, that numerous watery spoils,
Ere night, will crown his pleasing toils.
But ah! ere he his art can try,
And throw the well-dissembled fly,
Wherein the swift meandering brook
The trout may seize his fraudful hook;
Soon in his mind with fear dismay'd,
The landscape darkens into shade,
Black gathering clouds obscure the skies,
The winds in hollow murmurs rise,
The rains in copious streams descend,
And all his fairy visions end.
The Angler now, with rapid feet,
Hastens to find a dry retreat,
And homeward takes his dripping way,
Sad disappointment's pensive sway,
Still he resolves, the following morn,
Again to trace the verdant lawn,
Again to try his angle's wiles,
And trust the weather's tempting smiles.
HOPE, like the limpid stream he loves,
With various course, still onward moves;
Though rising high, or sinking low,
Yet never ceases it to flow.