The bubbling current, and like whirlpool curls.
The frightened fish, too nervous, far, to feed,
Dive down and hide beneath a battered reed.
Yet to measure the stream with his line he persists,
Though his arms they feel sprained, and ache down to the wrists;
And the darkness of night appeared really approaching,
As quick shade after shade on his light came encroaching.
But, wearied now, the rain gives o'er the fight,
Though thundering clouds have not expended quite
Their rumbling yet; and oft the forkèd light