How oft, ere morning lit the eastern steep,
And flowers had scarcely wakened up from sleep
But drooping still hung down their perfumed heads
Heavy with pearl-drops which the night dew sheds,
We sought the river-side, elate, to try
The salmon catches with a new-made fly
In Pwll-y-gwaidd perchance — oh, happy luck!
A rushing plunge! the kingly fish was struck!
Sullenly to the bottom down he sailed;
There nosing, showed his brightsides, silver scaled.
Hoping to rub out thus the rankling barb,
The tackle strong his craftiness would curb;
Enraged he sprang to 'scape his dreaded doom
And lashed the surface into bubbling spume:
At last his strength being spent and struggles o'er,
The ready gaff-hook dragged him to the shore.
No joys like these the hungry poacher knows:
When night's shades thicken, stealthily he throws
His net across where shallows join the deep,
With practised hand then makes a murderous sweep;
And one dark midnight hour thus serves to clear
The trout-stream more than angling through the year.
When hoar-frosts first with dazzling beauty creep,
Crisping the earth and making clear the deep
Where rolls the river-monarch in his pride,
The poacher's eye soon spies his gleaming side;
The grappling-hooks are with precision thrown,
Fixed with a jerk — the fated fish dives down
The pool's dark depths, then darting out the tide
Tears forth the keen barbs from its wounded side
And seeks in watery caves a hiding lair,
But splashing stones the scaly victim scare:
The poacher, baffled once, keeps on pursuit.
In vain 'neath hollow rock or tangled root
The fish seeks refuge from the unequal strife —
The deadly spear or gaff there takes its life.
Thus poachers prowl the river night and day,
Nor does the sabbath keep them from their prey.
Yet for these lawless ones the thinking mind
In charity can some excuses find:
Ill-paid for labour, they but seek to have
A share of blessings which kind Nature gave
To all alike; and those who own the soil
Should yield a little to the sons of toil.
Be theirs the privilege of costlier sport,
The varied pleasures of another sort,
With gaze-hound swift to course the timid hare
Or rouse sly reynard from his rocky lair;
To seek the feathered game through wood and mead
Or round the race-course ride the rapid steed.
These are the rich man's joys; then let him give
A trifling part of what he doth receive,
And let the humble artisan enjoy
The angler's gentle craft without annoy.
How oft, ere morning lit the eastern steep,
And flowers had scarcely wakened up from sleep
But drooping still hung down their perfumed heads
Heavy with pearl-drops which the night dew sheds,
We sought the river-side, elate, to try
The salmon catches with a new-made fly
In Pwll-y-gwaidd perchance — oh, happy luck!
A rushing plunge! the kingly fish was struck!
Sullenly to the bottom down he sailed;
There nosing, showed his brightsides, silver scaled.
Hoping to rub out thus the rankling barb,
The tackle strong his craftiness would curb;
Enraged he sprang to 'scape his dreaded doom
And lashed the surface into bubbling spume:
At last his strength being spent and struggles o'er,
The ready gaff-hook dragged him to the shore.
No joys like these the hungry poacher knows:
When night's shades thicken, stealthily he throws
His net across where shallows join the deep,
With practised hand then makes a murderous sweep;
And one dark midnight hour thus serves to clear
The trout-stream more than angling through the year.
When hoar-frosts first with dazzling beauty creep,
Crisping the earth and making clear the deep
Where rolls the river-monarch in his pride,
The poacher's eye soon spies his gleaming side;
The grappling-hooks are with precision thrown,
Fixed with a jerk — the fated fish dives down
The pool's dark depths, then darting out the tide
Tears forth the keen barbs from its wounded side
And seeks in watery caves a hiding lair,
But splashing stones the scaly victim scare:
The poacher, baffled once, keeps on pursuit.
In vain 'neath hollow rock or tangled root
The fish seeks refuge from the unequal strife —
The deadly spear or gaff there takes its life.
Thus poachers prowl the river night and day,
Nor does the sabbath keep them from their prey.
Yet for these lawless ones the thinking mind
In charity can some excuses find:
Ill-paid for labour, they but seek to have
A share of blessings which kind Nature gave
To all alike; and those who own the soil
Should yield a little to the sons of toil.
Be theirs the privilege of costlier sport,
The varied pleasures of another sort,
With gaze-hound swift to course the timid hare
Or rouse sly reynard from his rocky lair;
To seek the feathered game through wood and mead
Or round the race-course ride the rapid steed.
These are the rich man's joys; then let him give
A trifling part of what he doth receive,
And let the humble artisan enjoy
The angler's gentle craft without annoy.
And flowers had scarcely wakened up from sleep
But drooping still hung down their perfumed heads
Heavy with pearl-drops which the night dew sheds,
We sought the river-side, elate, to try
The salmon catches with a new-made fly
In Pwll-y-gwaidd perchance — oh, happy luck!
A rushing plunge! the kingly fish was struck!
Sullenly to the bottom down he sailed;
There nosing, showed his brightsides, silver scaled.
Hoping to rub out thus the rankling barb,
The tackle strong his craftiness would curb;
Enraged he sprang to 'scape his dreaded doom
And lashed the surface into bubbling spume:
At last his strength being spent and struggles o'er,
The ready gaff-hook dragged him to the shore.
No joys like these the hungry poacher knows:
When night's shades thicken, stealthily he throws
His net across where shallows join the deep,
With practised hand then makes a murderous sweep;
And one dark midnight hour thus serves to clear
The trout-stream more than angling through the year.
When hoar-frosts first with dazzling beauty creep,
Crisping the earth and making clear the deep
Where rolls the river-monarch in his pride,
The poacher's eye soon spies his gleaming side;
The grappling-hooks are with precision thrown,
Fixed with a jerk — the fated fish dives down
The pool's dark depths, then darting out the tide
Tears forth the keen barbs from its wounded side
And seeks in watery caves a hiding lair,
But splashing stones the scaly victim scare:
The poacher, baffled once, keeps on pursuit.
In vain 'neath hollow rock or tangled root
The fish seeks refuge from the unequal strife —
The deadly spear or gaff there takes its life.
Thus poachers prowl the river night and day,
Nor does the sabbath keep them from their prey.
Yet for these lawless ones the thinking mind
In charity can some excuses find:
Ill-paid for labour, they but seek to have
A share of blessings which kind Nature gave
To all alike; and those who own the soil
Should yield a little to the sons of toil.
Be theirs the privilege of costlier sport,
The varied pleasures of another sort,
With gaze-hound swift to course the timid hare
Or rouse sly reynard from his rocky lair;
To seek the feathered game through wood and mead
Or round the race-course ride the rapid steed.
These are the rich man's joys; then let him give
A trifling part of what he doth receive,
And let the humble artisan enjoy
The angler's gentle craft without annoy.
How oft, ere morning lit the eastern steep,
And flowers had scarcely wakened up from sleep
But drooping still hung down their perfumed heads
Heavy with pearl-drops which the night dew sheds,
We sought the river-side, elate, to try
The salmon catches with a new-made fly
In Pwll-y-gwaidd perchance — oh, happy luck!
A rushing plunge! the kingly fish was struck!
Sullenly to the bottom down he sailed;
There nosing, showed his brightsides, silver scaled.
Hoping to rub out thus the rankling barb,
The tackle strong his craftiness would curb;
Enraged he sprang to 'scape his dreaded doom
And lashed the surface into bubbling spume:
At last his strength being spent and struggles o'er,
The ready gaff-hook dragged him to the shore.
No joys like these the hungry poacher knows:
When night's shades thicken, stealthily he throws
His net across where shallows join the deep,
With practised hand then makes a murderous sweep;
And one dark midnight hour thus serves to clear
The trout-stream more than angling through the year.
When hoar-frosts first with dazzling beauty creep,
Crisping the earth and making clear the deep
Where rolls the river-monarch in his pride,
The poacher's eye soon spies his gleaming side;
The grappling-hooks are with precision thrown,
Fixed with a jerk — the fated fish dives down
The pool's dark depths, then darting out the tide
Tears forth the keen barbs from its wounded side
And seeks in watery caves a hiding lair,
But splashing stones the scaly victim scare:
The poacher, baffled once, keeps on pursuit.
In vain 'neath hollow rock or tangled root
The fish seeks refuge from the unequal strife —
The deadly spear or gaff there takes its life.
Thus poachers prowl the river night and day,
Nor does the sabbath keep them from their prey.
Yet for these lawless ones the thinking mind
In charity can some excuses find:
Ill-paid for labour, they but seek to have
A share of blessings which kind Nature gave
To all alike; and those who own the soil
Should yield a little to the sons of toil.
Be theirs the privilege of costlier sport,
The varied pleasures of another sort,
With gaze-hound swift to course the timid hare
Or rouse sly reynard from his rocky lair;
To seek the feathered game through wood and mead
Or round the race-course ride the rapid steed.
These are the rich man's joys; then let him give
A trifling part of what he doth receive,
And let the humble artisan enjoy
The angler's gentle craft without annoy.