Classic Poem

A TROUT that long had grac'd the stream,
And sported in the solar beam,
Would boast (tho' anglers others took)
He scorn'd the bait, nor fear'd the hook.
" These I escape, " he proudly cries,
" By age and by experience wise.
" Such schemes while I with caution shun,
" I ne'er by fraud can be undone. "
He said: — Behind a veil of clouds
The sun his noon-day splendor shrouds,
When gently one approach'd the shore,
Nor rod, nor line, nor hook he bore;
But on the bank he seem'd to stray,
Merely to see the fishes play.
The trout o'er rippling water rides,
And boldly near the stranger glides,
The man, intent, his art applies,
By wily means to win his prize,
Which, without bait, he easy gains,
Tickles, and takes him for his pains.
Thus he, who could the hook avoid,
Was by false confidence destroy'd.