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THE rosy morning blushes in the skies,
Illuminating with its beam the glooms,
It bids the angler from his couch arise
And taste the dewy landscape's soft perfumes.

The sun peeps gayly o'er the eastern hill,
His level shafts shoot brightly down the air;
They glance athwart the ripples of the rill,
They gleam across the uplands bleak and bare.

They glisten o'er the foliage and the grass,
They touch the dews, and diamond sparks are shown
O'er all the scene, gems clear as crystal glass
Shine out like jewels in a princess' zone.

Let the dull sluggard rest in slothful dream;
For him the dawning hath no charm to please.
Nor song of bird, nor murmur of the stream,
Or gentle rustle of o'erleaning trees.

But the blithe angler hastens down the way,
His heart tumultuous with a throbbing joy,
For him all Nature hath a music gay
A soft enchantment free from all alloy.

He seeks the merry brook or brimming lake,
Rejoic'd along their grassy banks to roam,
He sees with rapture where the brook trout break
Or whirl where rise the bubbles of the foam.

Beneath some mossy log that spans the brook
He knows some greedy monster lurking hides;
He swings the slender rod, he casts the hook,
And quick the gasping victim shows its sides.

Or haply where the salt tides of the bay
Tumultuous thro' the rocky inlet pours,
He takes the squeteague or his blueflsh prey,
Or bulky sheepshead by the shelly shores.

Or in his little skiff, far off the land,
Anchor'd o'er sunken rock or sandy shoal,
He takes the sea bass with his pliant wand,
Or the blue mackerel where the billows roll.

Ahl who may tell the pleasant thoughts that fill
His mind, entranced by Nature's happiest mood,
When all of earth and air are peaceful still;
No jarring sound to break the solitude?

Come forth, pale student, from thy wasting toil,
Come forth from warehouse and from heated street,
Come forth to joys where frothing billows boil,
Or where the woodland shades o'er rivers meet.

McLellan, Isaac. Poems of the Rod and Gun. New York: Henry Thorpe, 1886.

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