Classic Poem

The sun had tipt the horizon's edge,
Launching in air a shaft of gold,
Across the stream, athwart the sedge,
And where the rippling currents roll'd;
A boat was pushing from the shore,
A fowler's heart beat high with glee,
Yet ere the boatman touch'd an oar,
To reach a wooded island near,
An early flock, on rushing wing,
Flew o'er the stream's pellucid face;
When sudden a report did ring,
And ceas'd a wild-duck from the race.
The artist hath depicted well
The “Starting Shot,” and what befell.