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The sun had tipt the horizons edge,
Launching in air a shaft of gold,
Across the stream, athwart the sedge,
And where the rippling currents roll’s;
A boat was pushing form 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 streams 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.
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