It comes—it bites—he finds himself possest
Of one small trout, less wary than the rest:
With trembling hands he grasps his finny spoil,
The rich reward of one long day of toil.
For some short moments yet he keeps his seat
Close to the brook, and laves his weary feet;
Wide from his face his auburn locks he throws,
That playful airs may fan his little brows;
Then upward springs, and hums a blithesome lay,
To cheat fatigue, and charm his lengthened way.