The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 18/Number 105/To J. B.

by James Russell Lowell

 

TO J. B.

ON SENDING ME A SEVEN-POUND TROUT.

1.

FIT for an Abbot of Theleme,
For the whole Cardinals' College, or
The Pope himself to see in dream
Before his lenten vision gleam,
He lies there,—the sogdologer!

2.

His precious flanks with stars besprent,
Worthy to swim in Castaly!
The friend by whom such gifts are sent,—
For him shall bumpers full be spent,—

His health! be Luck his fast ally!

3.

I see him trace the wayward brook
Amid the forest mysteries,
Where at themselves shy aspens look,
Or where, with many a gurgling crook,
It croons its woodland histories.

4.

I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend
Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude
To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend,—
(O, stew him, Ann, as 't were your friend,
With amorous solicitude!)

5.

I see him step with caution due,
Soft as if shod with moccasins,
Grave as in church,—and who plies you,
Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew
From all our common stock o' sins.

6.

The unerring fly I see him cast,
That as a rose-leaf falls as soft,—
A flash! a whirl! he has him fast!
We tyros,—how that struggle last
Confuses and appalls us oft!

7.

Unfluttered he; calm as the sky
Looks on our tragicomedies,
This way and that he lets him fly,
A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die
Lands him with cool aplomb, at ease.

8.

The friend who gave our board such gust,—
Life's care, may he o'erstep it half,
And when Death hooks him, as he must,
He'll do it featly, as I trust,
And J. H. write his epitaph!

9.

O, born beneath the Fishes' sign,
Of constellations happiest,
May he somewhere with Walton dine,
May Horace send him Massic wine,
And Burns Scotch drink,—the nappiest!

10.

And when they come his deeds to weigh,
And how he used the talents his,
One trout-scale in the scales he'll lay,
(If trout had scales,) and 't will outsway
The wrong side of the balances.