THE wayward trout declined to rise,

And scorned my most seductive flies;

In vain I plied each angler's art, -

All noiseless drew the vines apart,

That hid within their shadows cool,

Girt round with rocks, some placid pool,

By laughing waterfall supplied,

With crystal drops that sought to hide

Beneath the banks, bedecked with moss,

And waving ferns that bent across,

As gossips should, and on the gale

Whispered each other many a tale.

Noiseless I drew the vines away,

Jointed my rod without delay,

Removed the fly, and in its stead

Tried one of modest brownish-red;

So true the rod, a single turn

Of wrist, so slight you'd scarce discern,

And without seeming thought or care,

It leaps, it hovers in the air;

Then downward floats the feathery fly,

As soft as flake from April sky.

But all in vain, and weary quite,

With heavy heart and basket light,

O'er pasture and through field I strode,

To gain, at length, the mountain road.

The way was long, the sun on high

Blazed with the fury of July;

Sometimes a glimpse of woodland glade,

Served but to mock me with its shade,

Till, mindful of exhausted strength,

At the cross-roads I paused at length.

Mid pine-trees sighing overhead,

There stood a school-house staring red;

Ugly enough itself, I ween;

And had not Nature clothed the scene

With charms from out her copious store,

It had remained forevermore

An eyesore unto old and young, -

By painter spurned, by poet unsung.

A ledge of rocks rose sharp behind,

O'er which the ivy dark entwined.

In the deep grove beyond I heard

The shrill note of some forest bird.

A tiny brooklet danced along,

And laughed and chattered in its song.

Each reed or fern by which it sped

Lifted again its drooping head,

And thankful smiled a greeting gay

To cheer it on its helpful way.

No window-curtains, but instead,

The lilac shade, outside was spread, -

A fickle shade that then and now

Suffered a ray to kiss the brow

Of maiden fair, then in a trice

Had shut it out from Paradise.

Ah, well the sun might find delight

In gazing on that forehead white,

And well the lilac (jealous elf!)

Might strive to keep it to itself!

Ah, why were not my youthful days

Thus passed in learning's pleasant ways!

Easy 't would be success to reach

With such a schoolmistress to teach.

I stood without the happy place,

And gazed upon her comely face.

O, might the painter's skill portray

The thought I feel, but cannot say!

Or could musicians' heavenly art

Give fitting utterance to my heart!

But poetry unskilled and rude

Can never, in its measures crude,

With all superlatives express

The tenth part of her loveliness,

Nor picture her unfettered grace,

Her goddess form, her angel face.

Alas, I hate to write the rest!

I gazed on her and then addressed. -

One glance of fear, one look of scorn,

And with no single word to warn,

She neared the closet, turned the key,

And set a bull-dog on to me.

C. A. M.