Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Angler
THE ANGLER.
I in these flowery meads would be:
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice;
*****
And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
Isaac Walton.
Thou that hast loved so long and well
The vale's deep quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams;
And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring.
Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst, a richer hue,
One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue.
And there but low sweet sounds are heard—
The whisper of the reed,
The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead;
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.
'Tis not the stag that comes to lave,
At noon, his panting breast;
'Tis not the bittern, by the wave
Seeking her sedgy nest;
The air is filled with summer's breath,
The young flowers laugh—yet look! 'tis Death!
But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learned to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green;
Then, lover of the silent hour
By deep lone waters past,
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
Mayst calmly bid thy streams farewell.