TROUT FISHING: 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE RIVER DAREN T. 
 
 JUural 
 
 BY C. WAYTH, ESQi 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO. 
 
 STATIONERS' HALL CODRT. 
 1845.
 
 TO 
 
 FRANCIS MARTIN, ESQ., F.S.A., 
 
 NORROY KING OF ARMS. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 To you, as an admirer of Nature in 
 all her varied forms, and as a most ardent trout- 
 fisher, I inscribe this trifling work as a small tribute 
 of my esteem. 
 
 In your extensive rambles in pursuit of this 
 favourite amusement, you may perhaps have been 
 surpassed by the late Sir Humphry Davy, who 
 visited, I believe, most of the continental rivers ; 
 but as to the lakes, rivers, and streams of England 
 
 A2 
 
 2030176
 
 IV DEDICATION. 
 
 and Wales, which abound in trout, your practical 
 knowledge stands, I believe, unrivalled. 
 
 That you may long enjoy the health which 
 those pursuits so firmly established is the sincere 
 wish of 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Most truly and faithfully yours, 
 C. WAYTH. 
 
 Bearsted House, 1845.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE following poem lays no claim to originality, 
 or the higher walks of poetical composition. 
 
 The scenes, and objects portrayed were chiefly 
 taken from personal observation ; and many of 
 them written on the spot. They are such as are 
 probably familiar to most persons connected with 
 the country, or, at least to those who delight in 
 rural scenery, and the various pursuits of rustic 
 life. 
 
 In the construction of the poem, such language
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 has been adopted, as seemed most congenial to the 
 scenes described. In this respect, the Author 
 hopes he may not have greatly erred. To paint 
 Nature in her simplest attire has been his chief 
 aim and study. 
 
 It will be perceived the heroic couplet has been 
 made use of throughout. This measure may seem 
 heavy, but as there are a few subjects of rather a 
 serious cast, perhaps a lighter costume might not 
 have suited them so well. Be that as it may, 
 such as the performance is, it is sent forth with all 
 its imperfections. Not, however, without request- 
 ing the kind indulgence of the reader to its defects.
 
 THE RIVER DARENT: 
 
 ttural 
 
 ROLL on, fair stream, thy limpid waters pour 
 Uncheck'd, unchanged, when I shall be no more ; 
 Here swift in rippling murmurs onward flow 
 There slowly wind with clear unruffled brow ; 
 Then bursting wide, rush o'er thy pebbly bed 
 Again contract in still meanders led ; 
 So wildly flow, in varied strain, my verse, 
 Whilst I attempt thy beauty to rehearse. 
 
 Oft on thy banks, at early dawn, I've trod, 
 And dash'd the dew from off thy verdant sod ;
 
 8 
 Dwelt on each scene mark'd, as the eye would 
 
 range, 
 
 Each varying feature as the seasons change ; 
 Hailed welcome Spring's advance in blushing hue, 
 At whose soft tread the hills their joy renew ; 
 Inhaled the breeze, blent with the Summer blaze, 
 When every mead its richest tint displays ; 
 Rejoiced as roll'd thy golden waves of grain, 
 And welcomed Autumn with her joyous train. 
 Then have I stray'd near Eynsford's Gothic 
 
 spire, 
 
 And house of God, enrobed in grey attire, 
 Paused near the mansions of its wasting dead, 
 With pensive mind, and slow unmeasured tread ; 
 In pity smiled to see how small a space, 
 Contains the ashes of the " lordly race ;" 
 Wish'd foul Ambition there would bend the eye, 
 And pamper'd Pride behold its destiny,
 
 Where sons, sires, grandsires, moulder side by side, 
 Wreck'd in the vortex of Time's ebbing tide ; 
 Then flash'd the thought that they once trod thy vale, 
 Their voice of joy rode laughing on the gale ; 
 Tow'ring each hope, when flush'd in vernal age, 
 Each prospect brighten'd on life's busy stage ; 
 Each summer sun, too, cast a genial gleam ! 
 Chill Autumn came Life seem'd an idle dream ; 
 Stern Winter followed in his with'ring blight, 
 Death came ; 'twas past they sunk to endless night. 
 
 Bending from age, deep scathed and mouldering 
 
 fast, 
 
 Thy hoary castle, Eynsford, have I passed ; 
 Beheld its portals crush'd, its roofless walls 
 Which ivy shelters where the night-bird calls ; 
 While Time yet striding o'er its crumbling tower, 
 
 Exulting, smiled at man's ephemeral power, 
 A 3
 
 10 
 
 And pointing to the ruin seem'd to say 
 All earth, and earth-born, thus shall own my sway. 
 
 Some humble cottage then arrests my view, 
 Where vines their fruitful tendrils now renew ; 
 On either side the door a border'd space 
 Displays the brightest flowers to deck the place; 
 Below the eaves, the martin builds her nest, 
 The swallow twitters on the chimney crest ; 
 Within the dwelling, Temperance holds her 
 
 reign, 
 
 And Neatness treads the floor without a stain. 
 Onwards I pass, 'midst orchards, gardens, fields, 
 Where bounteous Nature rich profusion yields ; 
 To Darent's flowery banks my footsteps tend ; 
 Where Nature's choicest beauties sweetly blend, 
 And where its waters in meanders glide, 
 Which willows screen, and sedges strive to hide,
 
 11 
 
 I stay my course, my jointed rod prepare, 
 And fix the reel and line with patient care. 
 Meanwhile, the breeze each cheerful sound conveys 
 Of rural life : the throstle pours her lays, 
 Distant the mower whets his curving scythe, 
 The wain loud creaks, the driver carols blithe, 
 Lows the full herd, the flock discordant bleats, 
 The wild bee hums in search of honey "d sweets, 
 The whirring partridge from her thicket calls, 
 The cascade murmurs as it sparkling falls, 
 The heron slowly cleaves her flight on high, 
 The distant earth receives her plaintive cry 
 Above, below, around, thy lovely glade, 
 These sounds I've hail'd, unsought by Fancy's aid. 
 
 Now as the morn advanced, fresh, fair, and 
 
 young, 
 And dew upon the blooming hawthorn hung;
 
 12 
 
 While yet the vapour grey the dawn had wove, 
 In lightest folds along the valley drove, 
 With cautious step each wile I then apply, 
 And on the stream project the line and fly. 1 
 Light drops the insect there, and floating down, 
 As if the wave its fragile form would drown ; 
 Then upward drawn, to make it seem alive, 
 And with the stream and death appear to strive : 
 Yet scorns the tenant of the brook to rise, 
 But at his haunt immovably he lies. 
 The place I change, and throw where currents 
 
 wind, 
 
 In ardent hope that chance may prove more kind. 
 Yet foil'd again, I with an effort try 
 Upon the further bank to lodge the fly ; 
 'Tis done then jerked from off the smooth shorn 
 
 turf, 
 It dips, and plays upon the rippling surf:
 
 13 
 
 Useless each art ; still on the banks I range, 
 The landscape oft, and oft the fly I change. 
 But when the fiery courses of the sun 
 The topmost height of heaven's vault had run, 
 The lightsome toil reluctantly I yield, 
 And seek some friendly tree my form to shield. 
 Around me Nature rests the swain reclines, 
 Who lately urged the scythe, and frugal dines : 
 Nor wain nor voice is heard along the glade 
 The flocks and herds in silence court the shade, 
 The plumy game in copse or corn-field rest, 
 The heron is still upon her branchy nest ; 
 Yet Darent's waters ripple through the vale, 
 As silence listens to their murmuring tale. 
 
 Now, stretched on Nature's lap, beneath the 
 
 shade, 
 Whilst winds of gentlest motion fan the glade,
 
 14 
 
 A slight repast my humble scrip affords, 
 More welcome than the choicest festive boards ; 
 This o'er, perchance I scan fair Gertrude's woes, 
 Till swells a tear at her life-ebbing throes. 2 
 Gertrude the gentle, lovely, good and young, 
 The sweetest tale that sadness ever sung. 
 Or turn the page, 3 where Conrad's daring band 
 Have fired the prows upon the Paynim strand. 
 In fancy view their chieftain's deep disguise, 
 The mighty warrior from the dervish rise ; 
 Behold him dash to earth his wide capote, 
 And mark the Moslem chiefs his sabre smote ; 
 Till living objects or the day's advance, 
 Arouse me from my dream, or mental trance : 
 I close the page again I freely trace 
 The glowing charms display'd o'er Nature's face ; 
 Before me winds the stream, reflecting wide 
 Each rural object in its gentle tide
 
 15 
 
 That loiters here, excursive and serene, 
 As if it fondly dwelt on every scene, 
 Where undulating slopes, and hills abound, 
 With hedge of hawthorn, copse, or woodland 
 crown'd. 
 
 Now slanting sunbeams tell from Heaven's crest, 
 The orb has far descended to the west ; 
 And as it sheds around a milder ray, 
 I quit my lonely seat once more to stray. 
 Again, with line uncoil'd, I distant bear 
 The fly delusive through the yielding air : 
 Again it falls again it meets the stream 
 Where osiers hide the sun's declining beam, 
 Or where the trembling current frets its way, 
 For there the trout awaits its destined prey ; 
 But art is useless with an azure sky : 
 Still unfatigued some other spot I try,
 
 16 
 
 Where rapid shallows feed the shelving deep, 
 And, hurrying on, a constant murmur keep ; 
 "Tis there I find the monarch of the place, 
 The brightest, noblest of the finny race ; 
 His throne, rude sunken rocks ; around him play 
 Pellucid waters, foaming in their spray ; 
 And where the eddies meet in swiftest course, 
 He lies, delighting in their whelming force ; 
 Nor dare his subjects to approach his throne 
 He sullen rules, despotic and alone. 4 
 And should some air-born fluttering child of Spring, 
 Or summer moth, approach on heedless wing, 
 Instant he darts, engulfs the hapless prize, 
 Then at his haunt again he watchful lies : 
 I mark him well my arm is poised on high, 
 And lightly o'er the spot I drop the fly ; 
 He moves no more, as if the foul design 
 He thence perceived, and shunned the fatal line.
 
 17 
 
 Alarm'd, he flies the current marks his flight, 
 Till deeper waters screen him from my sight; 
 All hope to lure him thence is at an end, 
 Yet near the place awhile my rod I bend. 
 I turn ; I view light tripping o'er the lawn, 
 Like lambs at tranquil eve, or bounding fawn, 
 An infant throng, in rustic neatness dress'd, 
 Where Nature has her fairest seal impress'd : 
 Some seek the path some on fresh verdure tread, 
 But yet so light, no flowret droops its head ; 5 
 Each bears a jug, and like a Hebe seems, 
 Or fairy that had dared the solar beams ; 
 The rural nurslings now, some hand in hand, 
 Approach the meadow where I musing stand ; 
 I learn the cause that tempts the youthful train ; 
 It is the owner of the near domain ; 
 His ample dairy from the kine well stored, 
 Is to their wants in full libation pour'd,
 
 18 
 
 The offspring they of those who daily toil, 
 To break or fertilize the stubborn soil. 
 
 But hark ! light sounds of mirth float on the air ; 
 To seek their cause my willing steps repair ; 
 I find hard by, upon the village green, 
 Where hoof, or carriage-track hath rarely been, 
 Manhood and youth, from labour just set free, 
 Are met to spend the eve in rustic glee ; 
 A neighbouring hamlet dares them to the field, 
 With sturdy arm the hardy bat to wield ; 
 Both sides are balanced with the nicest care, 
 And for the contest all alert prepare ; 
 The gaberdine is doffed upon the ground, 
 Or round the waist in closest fold 'tis bound ; 
 The wickets rear their heads, preluding try 
 The swains to catch, or launch the ball on 
 high :
 
 19 
 
 At length the die is cast ;' the players spread, 
 And each his station seeks with eager tread ; 
 All ready, expectation mutely stands, 
 And hopes of conquest flush the rival bands. 
 Mark ! see the flying ball the bat resounds, 
 And back the elastic orb unerring bounds; 
 Loud voices in confusion meet the ear, 
 To run to stop to throw while others cheer ; 
 Now speed the batters o'er the measured space, 
 There panting stop, or urge again the race ; 
 Home flies the ball an instant scarce too late, 
 Yet swift it flew as if 'twere winged by fate. 
 Again the bat is heard high mounts the ball, 
 Whilst hands outstretched rush eager for its fall ; 
 'Tis caught ! now loud the favour'd party shout, 
 And drops his bat, the hapless swain put out. 
 The game proceeds whilst lively hopes or fears, 
 As fortune wavers, ev'ry feature bears ;
 
 20 
 
 Bent on his staff, here stands the aged sire ; 
 His years forgot, he dreams of youthful fire, 
 As keenly now his voice and upraised hand, 
 Applaud the efforts of his village band, 
 For nobly doth each side the contest wield, 
 And emulation pants along the field. 
 Here lies thy prowess, England ! here we trace, 
 The fost'ring cradle of thy manly race ; 
 Here nerved is the strong arm, the muscle swells, 
 Whilst bracing sinews bind the form where 
 
 dwells 
 
 The dauntless heart the free the daring mind, 
 In danger heedless as the rushing wind. 
 
 I quit the throng to pace the village street, 
 Where noisy urchins just from school I meet ; 
 I reach the peasant's cot, whose stipend paid, 
 Relieves his wants without the parish aid.
 
 21 
 
 Erect his port, his conversation free, 
 To worthless pride he scorns to bend the knee ; 
 Around, his children smile in neat attire ; 
 His busy helpmate plies the crackling fire, 
 To eke their frugal store, her daily care, 
 Her hands must now the welcome meal prepare : 
 Here on a tripod stands the half-filled sack, 
 Late from the mill. The ceiling holds the rack, 
 From whence the sav'ry rashers seldom fail ; 
 Whilst there repose the felling-axe, the flail ; 
 The bill-hook, sickle, hedging gloves, and spade, 
 And scythe from rust is there securely laid. 
 A neighbouring shelf is charged with brittle ware. 
 Of varied shape, and size, arranged with care : 
 Fix'd on the wall, the clock, with simple chime, 
 Clicks o'er the hour, and marks the flight of time ; 
 And on a neat suspended board hard by, 
 The Book of Prayer and Bible meet the eye ;
 
 22 
 
 No litter idly strews the sanded floor, 
 A honey-suckle twines around the door ; 
 His land allotment teems with many a row 
 Of pulse, or roots that with luxuriance grow 
 Their culture claims the tenant's early care, 
 And evening twilight glimmers o'er him there ; 
 For Industry here marks the spot her own, 
 Where want or chill despair is never known 
 Nay more, a monthly stipend, to assuage 
 His future wants, he saves for helpless age. 
 
 I leave the cot with smiles of pure delight, 
 But soon a different scene attracts my sight : 
 It is a cottage, topped with broken thatch, 
 Where Poverty's pale finger lifts the latch, 
 Its garden bears full many a rankling weed, 
 That idly blooms, or runs to worthless^seed.
 
 I slowly enter to the drear abode, 
 
 While Desolation seems to point the road ; 
 
 A female form I meet consumptive, pale 
 
 Whose faltering tongue thus tells her mournful 
 
 tale: 
 
 "Scarce two sad years, which seem an age, have fled, 
 Since sweet contentment round this cot was 
 
 spread, 
 
 When cheerful labour all our wants supplied, 
 And ruddy health sat smiling by our side, 
 Then early rose the partner of my joy, 
 
 IT 
 
 To seek with lightsome tread the field's employ ; 
 A pledge of love had bless'd each coming year, 
 By humble independence made more dear : 
 For close attention to our frugal store 
 Gave just enough for all, but gave no more. 7 
 But ills before unknown came o'er the land, 
 And marr'd the little prospects we had plann'd ;
 
 24 
 
 The farm no more its gladd'ning profit yields, 
 Neglected now the tenant left his fields : 
 Dismissed from his employ my husband came, 
 With nought to cheer us but his spotless name, 
 But still we fondly hoped the times would mend, 
 And Heaven we oft implored to be our friend ; 
 Still oft our children begg'd in plaintive mood, 
 In vain demanding their accustom'd food ; 
 Then would their sire forget his tranquil mind, 
 Would listless grow, and at their fate repined ; 
 
 In distant fields for labour then he tried, 
 
 . 
 But yet the wish'd for boon was still denied ; 
 
 Our wants increased, e'en Hope's sweet solace 
 
 fled, 
 
 As famine tore away our only bed ; 
 Then heavy sickness on my husband press'd " 
 She turn'd she sobb'd her tongue refused the 
 
 rest
 
 25 
 
 Alas, her lips received his parting breath, 
 Her arms sustain'd him in the hour of death ! 
 But spouseless friendless hopeless, now she lives 
 With broken heart on what the parish gives ; 
 And when the village heard the passing bell 
 That flung its mournful accents o'er the dell, 
 The honest rustics felt a tear bedew 
 Eacli sunburnt cheek, for one whom well they knew, 
 Who long had toil'd with independent pride, 
 Till labour fail'd ; 'twas then he droop'd and died. 
 
 Keen are the pangs that haunt the manly 
 
 breast 
 
 Of him who toils, yet finds his home oppress'd 
 With every want, increasing day by day 
 His health and strength fast verging to decay; 
 'Tis then, with tardy step and maddening grief, 
 He seeks the union for its scant relief.
 
 26 
 
 Henceforth the humble suppliant hides his face, 
 And shuns the world, ashamed of his disgrace ; 
 His pride is gone he sinks ; in thought a slave, 
 His only hope on earth, the silent grave. 
 
 The sun, now shorn of its resplendent beams, 
 Through yonder leafy copse but faintly gleams, 
 And warns me hence, while yet his feeble ray 
 With horizontal shadows cross my way. 
 I quit the spot where pining sadness reigns, 
 Yet memory its image long retains; 
 For where's the scene can quench the burning 
 
 thought, 
 That undeserved distress hath deeply wrought? 
 
 Again I tread where yet the castle lowers 
 In sullen pride, above thick foliaged bowers,
 
 27 
 
 Unheeded now it stands nor targe, nor glaive, 
 Nor helmed crest, nor banners idly wave, 
 Nor warder's horn is winding through the dale, 
 But rural sounds of peace alone prevail; 
 While placed as if to mock the tyrant's fall, 
 The farm-yard smiles beneath the hoary wall. 
 This soon is pass'd its scenes are far behind, 
 As on the margin of the stream I wind; 
 And while its sounds I indistinctly hear, 
 Others, more perfect, greet my list'ning ear; 
 For in yon flow'ry mead, deep lowing stand 
 The dew-lapp'd kine, just from the milkmaid's hand: 
 Whilst in its pen the dappled calf remote, 
 Responsive hears its plaint in feebler note; 
 And near yon slope, as sportive lambkins bleat, 
 The ewes, in deeper tones, the strains repeat; 
 At intervals the nightingale replies, 
 
 And echo to prolong her warbling tries; 
 B 2
 
 28 
 
 Whilst, to complete the concert of the glade, 
 The blackbird fills the pause that silence made ; 
 Then joins the peasant-boy his humble song, 
 In wildest strain, as slow he strolls along. 
 
 Now, though my hopes of sport are at an end, 
 Still o'er the stream my taper rod 1 bend, 
 And where its wave reflects a verdant tinge 
 From branching willows, which the margin fringe, 
 Awhile I try but with incautious hand, 
 For, heedless of success, I careless stand, 
 And as I draw the bait along the tide, 
 To other scenes my thoughts unconscious glide : 
 As one long bending o'er some type-fraught 
 
 page, 
 
 In distant objects finds his thoughts engage, 
 And though the ready eye will scan the lines, 
 The mind retains not what their sense defines.
 
 29 
 
 Now slowly sinks the orb of day to rest, 
 But still the burnish'd rays illume the west, 
 And throw such vivid splendours o'er the sky, 
 As with the Iris' richest tints may vie. 
 Pure is the air, which sheds a soft serene ; 
 Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the scene; 
 It seems as if the winds were lull'd to rest 
 On earth's green lap, by balmy sleep oppress'd, 
 And this the tranquil hour which Nature chose 
 To summon bird and beast to seek repose. 8 
 
 Then on some moss-grown bank I musing sit, 
 The time, the place, for contemplation fit ; 
 Where rural scenes their sweetest tones impart, 
 And wind their softest pleasures round the 
 
 heart; 
 
 Perchance a spark of dormant love awakes, 
 Illumes awhile again the breast forsakes:
 
 30 
 
 As slumbering embers shed a transient light, 
 When sudden roused then mock the aching sight. 
 Yet oft as mem'ry strikes the tender string, 
 It gently vibrates for the heart will cling 
 To those impressions, when, with throbbing swell, 
 It wildly heaved to youth's delusive spell : 
 But youth is past enough we then can feel, 
 The fiery shafts of love's o'er ardent zeal; 
 Matured in life, our early thoughts may seem 
 Mere idle phantoms, or some airy dream; 
 Yet reft of love, life seems a desert, where 
 Each sunless landscape withers, chill'd and bare: 
 Save where her lambent flame pure friendship rears, 
 That warms the present, and the future cheers. 
 Friendship! ethereal ray of fire divine, 
 What spot is cheerless where thou deign'st to shine ? 
 Midst storms of life thou art the polar star, 
 That guides the lonely wanderer from afar,
 
 31 
 
 While steered by thee, he scorns the idle sport 
 Of adverse winds, and gains a tranquil port, 
 To rest awhile his straining canvas furl'd, 
 Till time unmoors him for a better world. 
 
 'Tis sweet to sit and muse, at eventide, 
 'Midst rural life, as soft the minutes glide ; 
 When busy thought her early scenes retrace, 
 Which years of anxious toil can ne'er efface. 
 Tis there again, with glowing fancy's aid, 
 I tread those fields where once my childhood 
 
 stray'd; 
 
 Whilst fond remembrance dwells on her whose care 
 First taught my infant tongue its morning prayer, 
 And ev'ning hymn who oft, in silent tread, 
 Watch'd with maternal care around my bed. 
 Dear scenes of youth, to be remembered till 
 This heart, that warmly beats, is cold and still;
 
 32 
 
 When heedless of the morrow's rising sun. 
 
 New sports were plann'd 'midst others scarce begun ; 
 
 When trifles vex'd but as a fleeting shade 
 
 From passing clouds, that brighter leaves the 
 
 glade, 
 
 And if were seen to start a willing tear, 
 As instantly the gem would disappear, 
 Brief as the dew-drop from the trembling spray, 
 That by the zephyr's wing is dash'd away 
 Ah ! who remembers well each infant joy, 
 And does not wish again to be a boy ! 
 
 Now Twilight grey unfolds her dewy wings, 
 And o'er each fading scene her mantle flings ; 
 In vain the west would yet assert its sway, 
 Eternity engulfs the wasting day ; 
 And whilst all objects indistinctly blend, 
 To some near hamlet slow my course I wend :
 
 I pass thick foliaged elms, around whose height 
 The dusky chafers 9 wing their droning flight ; 
 Deep humming there, they seem like bees that sip 
 The dews of sweetness from the flowret's lip ; 
 Yet each was late, within its narrow cell, 
 A grovelling worm, till summer sunbeams fell ; 
 Then burst they wide the cerements of then* tomb, 
 And spurn'd,for fields of light, Earth's sullen gloom. 
 Night's favour'd bird then on smooth pinion glides 
 Close to my path, and for her young provides ; 
 Then flitting round, on dark ambiguous wing, 
 The lonely bat oft makes her airy ring; 
 Or sudden turns, or dips, or mounts on high, 
 In rapid flight that mocks the straining eye ; 
 Nature's unfavour'd child, that seems to shun, 
 As conscious of its form, the noon-day sun ; 
 A peal of village bells then greets mine ear, 
 
 Like music, when th' jEolian harp is near ; 
 B 3
 
 34 
 
 Few are its notes, yet sweetly do they blend, 
 As from some distant tower their notes they 
 
 send; 
 
 Oft have I paused to hear their soothing tale 
 Serenely floating o'er some sylvan dale : 
 Now pealing loud then heard in fainter swell, 
 'Till dying slumbers would their accents quell ; 
 Then woke again again they breathed awhile, 
 As breezes brought them from the sacred pile. 
 
 Now o'er yon eastern hill a gleam of light 
 Breaks faintly through the folding robe of night ; 
 Its fount appears not whilst its kindling seems 
 To borrow from some earthly cause its beams. 
 As when some pile remote 'midst raging fires 
 T' illume the murky gloom of night aspires, 
 Too distantly to know th' impending cause, 
 The way-worn trav'ller vain conjectures draws ;
 
 35 
 
 So doubtful here I stand, till with delight 
 I hail the rising full orb'd Queen of Night : 
 Her peerless brow ascends the pure serene, 
 And sheds its soften'd tint o'er every scene ; 
 Whilst in her train appears each beaming star, 
 In bright attendance round her silver car. 
 
 Then, from the farm and field and meadow led, 
 Between white latticed cottages I tread; 
 A rural spot where Darent's waters glide, 10 
 And two opposing cultured hills divide ; 
 Whose beech-crown'd tops impede the vengeful 
 
 gale, 
 
 Lest it should sweep too fiercely o'er the vale; 
 Here, as the shades of night around me spread, 
 I pass the silent mansions of the dead ! 
 But yet the slanting moonbeams will disclose 
 The mounds where the departed find repose;
 
 36 
 
 O'er some the simple turf denotes the spot, 
 Others are named but names long since forgot. 
 Whilst more remote, dimm'd by the mist of years, 
 The mausoleum's hoary head appears ; 
 Where, shrouded in its massive cell profound, 
 The tenant sleeps, in dreamless slumber bound. 
 Oh, when this frame shall quit its mortal coil, 
 And cease for ever from its earthly toil, 
 Then let it rest beneath some verdant sod, 
 Where fall the dews of Heaven where Nature's 
 
 God 
 
 May shed his purple rays of morning light, 
 As wake the wild flowers from the chills of night ; 
 And 'stead of some cold monumental stone, 
 There let the blooming hawthorn stand, alone, 
 On which the redbreast may his notes prolong 
 To cheer my spirit with its plaintive song.
 
 37 
 
 These scenes I quit, to seek the dwelling where 
 Each want is soothed, and lull'd is every care. 
 The mansion where the Lord of Afric's plains" 
 In fearful aspect stands yet mildly reigns ; 
 Tis here I meet whate'er my wants require, 
 And soon to rest my wearied steps retire ; 
 Then, as the welcome pillow greets my sight, 
 I grateful hear the friendly sounds "Good night!"
 
 PART II. 
 
 Now Morpheus reigns awhile, perchance a dream 
 
 Conducts my wand'ring fancy to the stream, 
 
 Where all its joys again flit o'er the mind, 
 
 As slumbers soft my eyelids gently bind. 
 
 But when Aurora's first impurpled ray, 
 
 In orient splendour wakes the new-born day ; 
 
 And yet while nature rests and all is still, 
 
 Save the hoarse murmur of a neighb'ring mill, 
 
 Refresh'd I rise, a rapid glance surveys 
 
 The dawning features which the morn displays ; 
 
 Hush'd are the winds high fleecy clouds are seen, 
 
 The sure precursors of a day serene.
 
 40 
 
 My toilet quickly o'er, and basket slung, 
 To which the landing-net is careless hung, 
 Receding bars obey my ready hand, 
 And on the margin of the stream I stand ; 
 Briefly I pause to take a transient view 
 Of Nature's charms ere I my path pursue, 
 Where pendent willows, clothed in lively green, 
 The stream-fed mill and cottage partly screen, 
 And bending low, sweep o'er the gentle tide, 
 To fan its waters as they smoothly glide : 
 Not far remote are seen acacias fair, 
 And bright laburnums wave their golden hair ; 
 Above, the chesnut rears its stately head, 
 Its dusky green with silvery blossoms spread : 
 Beyond, repose rich meadows, stretching wide, 
 Their flowery laps bedeck'd in vernal pride, 
 While towering elms are in the landscape seen, 
 And growing corn-fields close the rural scene.
 
 41 
 
 With line prepared, and firm adjusted rod, 
 My steps impress the mead's enamell'd sod, 
 While blithe the lark impatient of delay, 
 Her voice attunes to hail the rising day ; 
 The cuckoo swells her note, at whose glad voice 
 The smiling hills and fertile vales rejoice, 
 For never yet came o'er the listening ear 
 Her welcome note, but Summer linger'd near, 
 When all the varied forms of earth and air, 
 The genial influence of the time declare ; 
 Yet Spring to her brings no maternal joys, 1 
 No nest she weaves no brood her care employs ; 
 But still the race, by Nature's mystic laws, 
 By fraud revives by force existence draws. 
 Along the stream my course I lightly tread, 
 And dash the dew beneath me densely spread ; 
 While deep I leave the traces on the grass 
 Whichever way my devious footsteps pass.
 
 42 
 
 I mark a spot where coiling roots emboss 
 A shelving bank, o'ertopped with weeds and moss ; 
 Above the spot, a branchless oak uprears 
 Its hoary trunk, crush'd by the weight of years, 
 Or shiver'd by the lightning's vivid flash, 
 When burst its splendours from the volley'd crash ; 
 Not far below, the eddying current sweeps 
 In ceaseless round, amid transparent deeps, 
 Whose circling mirror oft is shatter'd found, 
 Pierced by the lively trout's elastic bound. 
 'Tis here I pause but distantly I stand 
 With tapering line uncoil'd, and ready hand : 
 Far sweeps the rod, the practised eye to guide, 
 As drops the palmer on the whirling tide. 2 
 Noiseless it falls, and light as if 'twere driven 
 On failing wing, borne by the breath of heaven ; 
 The current bears it on its tranquil course, 
 Whilst oft I move it with the gentlest force ;
 
 43 
 
 Withdrawn from thence, again it mounts on high, 
 Again the wave receives the buoyant fly : 
 A rise 3 I strike ! and instantly my hook 
 Relentless holds the tenant of the brook ! 
 He darts below his course I lightly feel 
 Poise high the rod, and stay the circling reel ; 
 He bounds indignant from the troubled tide, 
 Lashes the wave, and flounders far and wide. 
 Now bends my rod obedient to his sway, 
 As marks the trembling line his rapid way ; 
 Again he leaps strikes at the line, then flies, 
 And in his haunt for shelter vainly tries : 
 I raise him thence beneath the bank he dives, 
 And, hard the contest 'tis for life he strives ; 
 Whilst doubt and fear my anxious breast assail, 
 Lest he by force or wily art prevail, 
 Or line relax, or hook renounce its prey, 
 And instantly my fervid hopes betray.
 
 44 
 
 At length, his efforts on the wane I find, 
 While on the reel the yielding line I wind ; 
 He seems exhausted, and with steady hand 
 I guide him near the spot on which I stand. 
 Behold him now, the river's speckled pride, 
 Inglorious drawn upon the rippling tide. 
 The net I grasp to bear him to the land, 
 And wait the event with far extended hand ; 
 Then bending low to fix the wish'd for prize, 
 A plunge he gives, unbarbs the hook, and flies ; 
 Dismay'd I feel the disappointment sore, 
 And for an instant give the pastime o'er. 
 Strange that such trifles should usurp the mind, 
 Where reason ought to dwell with thought 
 
 combined. 
 Yet, reader, if perchance these sports you've 
 
 sought 
 In early spring, with health and ardour fraught,
 
 45 
 
 Have you not felt what here I would describe, 
 When striving to allure the finny tribe ? 
 And disappointment keenly felt when foil'd 
 In grasping at the prize for which you toil'd ? 
 
 The hours with rosy fingers now unbar 
 The outer gates of Heaven his blazing car 
 The God of day ascends a flood of light 
 Bursts o'er the slumbering world, as vanquish'd 
 
 night, 
 
 In slow and sullen measure, sinks to rest 
 Behind the amber curtains of the west. 
 Fresh is the morn upon the leafy spray, 
 Unnumbered dew-drops glitter in the ray ; 
 The clouds that lately o'er the valley dwelt 
 Now in the beams of morn begin to melt ;
 
 46 
 
 While from the meads light folds of mist are 
 
 driven, 
 
 Earth's morning offerings at the shrine of heaven. 
 'Tis soothing to the mind to gaze around 
 In early dawn, where rural scenes abound, 
 Where every view fresh beauties will disclose, 
 As rustic life awakes from its repose ; 
 To see the peasant from his cot emerge, 
 His welcome labour through the day to urge, 
 And from the busy farm the boy to view, 
 Along the fields, his careless step pursue ; 
 To hear his voice collect the dairy's pride, 
 That lowing answer to their youthful guide ; 
 The clashing gate, the frequent neighing steed, 
 The crowing pheasant ere he roams to feed, 
 The noisy rooks, the flail but seldom still, 
 The village clock, the distant anvil shrill :
 
 47 
 
 These have I heard or seen, and rapture felt, 
 As on each object have I fondly dwelt. 
 
 My recent failure soon is quite forgot, 
 As down the stream I try some other spot ; 
 I throw where sedge and rashes partly screen 
 The wand'ring tide; and where its banks are 
 
 seen 
 
 With willows crown'd, here oft I keenly try, 
 As near the spreading boughs I drop the fly ; 
 It meets the wave but stih 1 the line will rest 
 Upon the sedge ; when, dashing from her nest 
 The frightened moorhen flaps her liquid way, 
 As round her feet the splashing waters play. 
 The haunt disturbed, the wary trout have fled. 
 And from the place, with eager step, I tread ; 
 But soon I stop to throw where yet the stream 
 Is shadow'd from the morn's effulgent beam.
 
 48 
 
 In tranquil course it rolls clear, wide, and deep, 
 Where oft the finny tribe are seen to leap ; 
 The line is thrown mark, mark ! another rise ! 
 I instant strike, and hold the struggling prize ; 
 And boldly does he lash the yielding tide, 
 Tries ev'ry art and seeks the hollow side. 
 But tired at length, the landing net at hand, 
 I bear the exhausted prisoner to the strand ; 
 The barb removed, with crimson gore imbued, 
 While oft his efforts vainly are renew'd, 
 But worn out, helpless, soon his form I view 
 Extended on the grass in varied hue ; 
 His brilliant eye, where ruby tints abound ; 
 His silver scales, that gem the verdant ground ; 
 The vivid spots that mark his burnish'd mail, 
 Where gold and purple shades in turn prevail ; 
 But soon they fade, for, as convulsed he lies, 
 His gills distend he faintly struggles dies!
 
 49 
 
 My pendent basket now its valve unfolds, 
 And, stored with grass, the lifeless captive holds, 
 Whilst hopes of farther sport dilate my breast, 
 And urge my efforts with redoubled zest ; 
 Again, and oft, the vagrant fly I guide 
 Above below near distantly, and wide; 
 And if, perchance, once more I grasp a prize, 
 Flush'd with success, increasing joys arise ; 
 So glides the morn, until the sun has driven 
 His flaming steed half up the arch of heaven ; 
 But, fasting long, my wants I feel intrude, 
 For some time felt, but in the sport subdued, 
 Till now its craving brooks no more delay, 
 And to some hamlet near I seek my way. 
 No longer now on glittering dew I tread, 
 No more its lustre from the thorn is spread, 
 Its pearly drops dissolved, are fled on high, 
 
 In viewless form till evening lingers nigh : 
 c
 
 50 
 
 Then chill'd, condensed, again its gentle showers, 
 Shall glad the earth, and cheer her drooping 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 Here, as I pass along the verdant grounds, 
 The lively foal, in playful curvet, bounds, 
 Or tries its growing strength in circles wide, 
 Or from its dam imbibes the vital tide ; 
 She o'er her charge fond care maternal feels, 
 And at intrusion lifts her threat'ning heels. 
 
 The stream the mead the copse are far 
 
 behind, 
 
 Until the wish'd-for hamlet I can find : , 
 Its scatter'd dwellings soon arrest my sight, 
 In varied form, but chiefly robed in white ; 
 At length, this trite inscription stays my course, 
 " Good entertainment here for man and horse." 
 I gladly enter, and in haste inquire,
 
 51 
 
 If to assuage my wants it can aspire ? 
 I'm usher'd to the sand-strew'd parlour, where 
 Its neat arrangement shows the owner's care 
 The fireless stove with boughs of freshest green, 
 The lilac's bloom is on the mantle seen, 
 The early rose beside it finds a place, 
 And slips of fragrant brier the windows grace. 
 The oaken table here is quickly dress'd 
 In damask fine, preserved for stranger guest ; 
 And while 'tis spread, the dame will tell with pride, 
 Thrice ten years since 'twas hers when first a bride : 
 Herself in clean attire upon her head 
 His silver honours Time begins to shed ; 
 A border'd cap o'er once a handsome face, 
 Which fillets round her head so neatly brace, 
 Her quilted coat where ev'ry fold displays 
 Its thousand squares below her antique stays, 
 
 Her gown uptuck'd the spotted kerchief hose 
 c 2
 
 52 
 
 Of worsted knit, compress'd with buckled shoes. 
 The home-made loaf is brought, with eggs new-laid, 
 And soon the dairy yields its choicest aid ; 
 Suffused, the Souchong's leaf its shape unfolds, 
 The cup of China rare the bev'rage holds ; 
 Its pleasing influence then I grateful feel, 
 And make with pure delight the welcome meal. 
 Now comes mine hostess, and her just demands 
 Receives with thanks, and hopes for more com- 
 mands, 
 
 Repeats her thanks, and then requests her dome, 
 In future times, may be my casual home ; 
 And adds, in wintry nights, her parlour fire 
 Oft cheers the village doctor lawyer squire : 
 'Tis here they meet, secure from home control, 
 To pass the eve around the social bowl 
 While boasts the squire of horses, dogs, and sport, 
 The lawyer of the quirks of inns of court,
 
 53 
 
 As learned Sangrado, scorning sports and law, 
 With ease an inference, or a tooth can draw. 
 
 Here, too, when Autumn, with its laughing train, 
 Bedecks with boughs the rereward load of grain, 
 Hale, cheerful age, and youth and swains repair, 
 With jocund mirth, the harvest-home to share ; 
 The throng arrives, each hind the Farmer's guest, 
 In neat attire and cleanly kirtle dress'd, 
 Where all who toil'd, partake the festive joy 
 Even to Giles, the hapless orphan boy. 
 
 By Heaven, it is a goodly sight to view 
 This sylvan fete to rustic labour due, 
 Where sits the aged patriarch of the soil, 
 Presiding o'er the group that lent its toil, 
 While on the board rich smoking joints abound, 
 As makes the mantling jug its frequent round ;
 
 54 
 And while the Founder drinks each workmans' 
 
 health, 
 Forgets not from their toil he draws his wealth. 
 
 The cloth removed, and tables seen no more, 
 Wives matrons children grace the new swept 
 
 floor, 
 
 And youthful mothers o'er their infants bend, 
 As liberal hands on all their wants attend, 
 While nut-brown damsels, and their lusty swains 
 Brisk measure tread to music's lively strains ; 
 And as some pleasing nymph glides through the 
 
 dance, 
 
 The favoured youth receives her timid glance, 
 Her eyes revert, as instantly her cheek 
 Displays in brighter tinge its ruddy streak ; 
 Confused, awhile the bashful maiden stands, 
 Till " hands across" again her step demands.
 
 55 
 
 And while the dance the youthful pairs prolong, 
 The talking grandsire sits behind the throng 
 Beside his aged dame, who listening hears 
 His tales, recounting deeds of former years, 
 When in life's summer both elate could share 
 Each rural pastime with the blithest pair ; 
 When on the green, amid the sylvan rout, 
 How oft they tired the village Orpheus out : 
 Then with affection pure she smiling sees 
 "The lisping grandson, climbing on her knees, 
 Whilst memory whispers with a tear of joy, 
 There climb'd his sire when such an artless boy. 
 Such scenes were common with each rural train 
 That turn the glebe or break the stubborn plain; 
 But scenes gone by, ere yet the toiling band 
 Those burthens felt which now oppress the land.
 
 56 
 
 And when the climbing hop-bines, like the vine, 
 In bright array their rich festoons entwine ; 
 When every tendril clust'ring tribute yields, 
 Diffusing gladness o'er the smiling fields, 
 Each town and village group, in rural mien, 
 All hasten then to aid the village scene 
 A sort of jubilee, where mirth abounds 
 In song, or laughter loud in varying sounds ; 
 Oft have I paused to view this busy time, 
 So like the vintage of a foreign clime. 
 
 And as the muse once stray 'd near Cambria's 
 
 hills, 
 
 The scene that follows yet the memory fills : 
 It was the Sabbath, and each chiming bell 
 The tenants summon'd of the peaceful dell ; 
 O'er the smooth turf that skirts the village green, 
 To seek the church the cottage groups were seen.
 
 57 
 
 First trod the hind, erect in manly pride, 
 His boys in ruddy health on either side ; 
 No rude, no boist'rous mirth disturbed their way, 
 For well they knew it was a sacred day ; 
 The daughters, then, in simple neatness dress'd, 
 The matron led the youngest oft caress'd ; 
 Then came an aged pair in feeble tread, 
 Yet cheerful air, by pure devotion led. 
 And as the well-known pile each group drew nigh, 
 The smile of friendship met each beaming eye 
 From neighbours meeting at the churchyard gate, 
 Who for the hour of service meekly wait : 
 And ere the welcome pastor thither came, 
 Kind salutations ran from name to name ; 
 Such converse there the ready ear might note, 
 Whilst in the space for sepulture remote, 
 A youthful train would piously attend, 
 
 And o'er a new raised mound in sadness bend. 
 c3
 
 58 
 
 'Twas there beneath a little span of earth, 
 Reposed in peace the form that gave them birth, 
 And though no sculptured stone had marked the spot, 
 While memory holds her seat 'tis not forgot, 
 For as the holy day of prayer glides round, 
 Her offspring there with filial love are found, 
 Planting the sweetest wild-flowers o'er the grave, 
 Near which the branches of the cypress wave ; 
 The spouseless sire apart in pensive mien, 
 To hide the tearful eye was often seen : 
 Perchance then o'er his mind impetuous rush'd 
 Brief thought of early joys that now were crush'd 
 Of days long past, when first of love he spoke, 
 In trembling accent, as the tale he broke ; 
 The hopes, the fears, that then assail'd his breast, 
 From pure affection, though but ill express'd ; 
 Or then might rise the thought for ever dear, 
 When hope presides, though cliill'd by doubt and fear ;
 
 59 
 That anxious time when Heaven upon them 
 
 smiled, 
 
 And promised to their arms their first-born child, 
 The hour of bliss when, with triumphant joy, 
 The matron brought the welcome stranger boy, 
 And as the raptured sire gazed o'er its face, 
 His features there the dame would smiling trace ; 
 Then to the mother back she bears the prize, 
 Who fondly waits to soothe its feeble cries, 
 There clasp'd and cradled on her gentle breast, 
 He draws the vital stream, 4 and sinks to rest 
 Perchance such were the scenes that o'er him 
 
 flash'd; 
 
 But from his lips the balmy cup is dash'd, 
 For as his eyes are raised in faltering breath, 
 He sees her shrouded in the arms of death. 
 And as her offspring o'er the grave he views, 
 Their helpless state each rending pang renews.
 
 60 
 
 Then comes the youngest-born, in sables clad, 
 And artless asks the cause that makes him sad. 
 Mutely he raised the orphan to his breast, 
 As roll'd the tear that would not be suppress'd. 
 Then, when the man of God appear'd in sight, 
 All sought the church to join its holy rite. 
 There, in plain terms, such truths he would impart, 
 That left a deep impression on the heart ; 
 Nor for their spiritual wants alone he cared, 
 For oft his thoughts their field allotments shared ; 
 As interest strove to mar what he had plann'd, 
 To each industrious hind his rood of land.* 
 
 * This is rather a poetical licence, as the Author is not aware that 
 the system of cottage allotments or field gardens has extended to 
 Wales. This, however, he knows, that the system has been for 
 some time in active operation in England, and is now making rapid 
 progress through several counties, owing chiefly to the very laudable 
 exertions of the Labourers' Friend Society, amongst whom are many 
 clergymen and some of the first characters in the country. The 
 affairs of this excellent society are ably conducted by a committee, 
 the secretary to which is John Wood, Esq., 21, Exeter Hall.
 
 61 
 
 The meads, the fields, once more in all their pride, 
 Before me spread their beauties far and wide ; 
 Clothed is the sky in bright cerulean hue, 
 Nor cloud opaque impedes the boundless view : 
 The smiling earth each lovely tint displays, 
 From new-born flowers nurs'd in the solar rays. 
 And now the flock have sought yon chequer'd shade, 
 Beneath the grove that skirts the verdant glade ; 
 Recumbent there from sultry heat oppress'd, 
 - They cease to bleat, and seem in perfect rest ; 
 Apart, the shaggy watch-dog sentry keeps, 
 Alert and watchful whilst his master sleeps ; 
 And when at eve the friendly spot they change 
 To distant fold, or hill, or dale to range ; 
 This faithful guardian guides their wand'ring course, 
 Or urges on their steps with threatnings hoarse, 
 While oft some wayward straggling fleece may feel 
 The rudest hint from his unerring zeal :
 
 62 
 
 Each task perform'd, he seeks his master's side, 
 Till sent again to check, collect, or guide. 
 
 And where the mazy river forms its bed, 
 That, lake-like, near yon grassy mead is spread, 
 The restless herd have sought its cooling wave, 
 On rapid foot their burning sides to lave. 
 Yet short their stay, for soon to madness stung, 5 
 By buzzing insects, high their heads are flung; 
 Tumultuous then each sweeping tail erect, 
 They scour the field in wild career uncheck'd ; 
 Yet vain the flight, for on light easy wing 
 The foes pursue and urge the madd'ning sting ; 
 Their course I shun, as onwardly I bend 
 To where two branching streams their waters 
 
 blend, 
 
 And as their willow'd banks my footsteps near, 
 Brief splashings on the tide I frequent hear ;
 
 63 
 
 It is the trout, that here in ceaseless play, 
 Bound from the flood to grasp their fluttering prey. 
 For now the caddis 6 from their larva state, 
 The river scorn to soar on wings elate; 
 Twice six months wrapt within each narrow cell, 
 In limpid streams secure, these insects dwell, 
 Till heaven's orb resumes its ardent sway, 
 And arctic regions blaze in nightless day; 
 Then from each dusky shroud is seen to spring 
 A beauteous nymph, upborne on joyous wing. 
 Oft on the bank of some meandering flood, 
 To mark the transformation have I stood, 
 When every object on its wave was seen 
 Reflected from the calm surrounding scene ; 
 Then sudden on its mirror burst to view 
 Bright wings, like fairy sails of whitest hue- : 
 Awhile they float but soon their folds convey 
 The nymph light fluttering to the realms of day ;
 
 64 
 
 Yet oft the instant that she spreads her wings 
 To stay her course the watery tyrant springs ; 
 Or if, perchance, her graceful form should rise, 
 To skim awhile beneath soft summer skies, 
 The swallow, stooping from its airy height, 
 Bears the lone wanderer from its hapless flight. 
 These dangers past, behold her then aspire 
 To fields of air- -but soon her pinions tire; 
 Declining fast, her short-lived journey ends, 
 As on some grassy spot her flight descends. 
 'Tis then with eager eye the angler views 
 Her brief descent, and thither quick pursues : 
 Abruptly seized, soon on his murderous hook 
 Its dying struggles fret the tranquil brook ; 
 The trout perceives to grasp the lure he flies, 
 The barb he feels and with his captive dies. 
 Yet seldom I the air-born flutterer sought, 
 Nor with its aid the river tenants caught ;
 
 65 
 
 Upon the stream I launch'd the mimic fly, 
 Resembling those that near the waters ply ; 
 Whilst climes remote to form it gave their aid, 
 And plumage rare its brightest tribute paid. 
 The prowlers of the forest also lent 
 Their choicest furs in varying richness blent : 
 These, formed with patient care and ready 
 
 hand, 
 
 The lures deceptive which the streams demand. 
 No tortured worm e'er writhed upon my hook, 
 Nor living moth, with murderous aim, I took ; 
 The bait of art for every change I used, 
 Nor e'er with wanton sport the trout abused. 
 For when mild Auster blew, and plunging % 
 
 keen, 
 
 The finny tribe insatiate oft were seen. 
 My basket fill'd I deemed an ample store, 
 Then heedless threw, or gave the pastime o'er
 
 66 
 
 Such my pursuits when high the god of day 
 From Aries glides, and Taurus marks his way ; 
 But when Autumnal tint the woods have crown'd, 
 And rustling stubbles have the fields embrown'd, 
 The stream I quit to mark the covey's flight, 
 And beat each covert with increased delight : 
 O'er hill or dale through copse or thicket led, 
 As fancy guides, or chance directs my tread. 
 
 Dear are those scenes to him whose ardent mind 
 Dwells but in fields but whom vocations bind 
 Oft to the town there through the ling'ring day 
 He counts the hours, impatient of delay, 
 Even as the school-boy counts the minutes o'er, 
 Till he can join some much loved sport once more ; 
 Then when for one short hour he flies restraint 
 Ah ! where's the hand his boundless joys can paint ?
 
 NOTES TO PART I. 
 
 NOTE 1, PAGE 12. 
 
 " And on the stream project the line," fyc. 
 To the reader who may not be acquainted with fly trout 
 fishing, it may be necessary to observe that it is quite dis- 
 tinct from angling with a float. Its chief art consists in 
 throwing, with the assistance of an elastic rod, a tapering line 
 from twelve to twenty yards in length; at the further extre- 
 mity of which ten or fifteen feet of very fine Indian weed is 
 added : to this is attached the artificial fly and hook. 
 
 NOTE 2, PAGE 14. 
 " Life ebbing throes." 
 
 " And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd, 
 Yet whilst she clasped him lifeless to her zone, 
 Say, burst they borrow'd from her father's wound 
 These drops? Oh God! the life blood is her own." 
 GEBTKUDE or WYOMING.
 
 68 
 
 NOTE 3, PAGE 14. 
 " Or turn the page" $c. THE CORSAIR. 
 
 NOTE 4, PAGE 16. 
 " He sullen rules despotic and alone." 
 
 In streams where trout are not very numerous, each fish has 
 its peculiar haunt, or station, driving away all the smaller 
 brood from its vicinity. 
 
 NOTE 5, PAGE 17. 
 
 " But yet so light iwflowret doops its head." 
 
 " E'en the light harebell raised its head, 
 Elastic from her airy tread." 
 
 LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 NOTE 6, PAGE 19. 
 " At length the die is cast," Sfc. 
 
 Before the game of cricket begins, it is usual to draw lots 
 to decide which party is to have first possession of the 
 wickets. 
 
 NOTE 7, PAGE 23. 
 
 " Gave just enough for all, but gave no more." 
 
 " For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, 
 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more." 
 
 GOLDSMITH.
 
 69 
 
 NOTE 8, PAGE 29. 
 "Now come still evening on." PARADISE LOST. 
 
 NOTE 9, PAGE 33. 
 " The dusky chafers." 
 
 This insect is the common cockchafer or Melolontha Vul- 
 garis, which in its grub or larva state is so destructive to pas- 
 tures, and sometimes even to corn-fields. It remains four 
 years in the earth before it assumes its winged form. It is 
 to obtain this grub that rooks may be occasionally seen, in 
 great numbers, in old meadows, turning up the turf with their 
 beaks. See '"'Introduction to Entomology" by Kirby and 
 Spence. 
 
 NOTE 10, PAGE 35. 
 " A lovely place where Darent's waters glide. 
 
 Farningham, a pleasant village, equi-distant between Maid- 
 stone and London. 
 
 NOTE 11, PAGE 37. 
 " The Lord of Afric's plains," jfc. 
 The Red Lion Inn.
 
 70 
 
 NOTES TO PART II. 
 
 NOTE 1, PAGE 41. 
 
 " Yet Spring," Sfc. 
 
 See the natural history of this bird, which is extremely 
 curious. 
 
 NOTE 2, PAGE 42. 
 " As drops the palmer," Sfc. 
 
 Palmer is the name given to a caterpillar, from its wander- 
 ing habits. In its artificial state, at the shops, it is called the 
 palmer-fly. There are various sorts, such as the golden 
 palmer, &c. 
 
 NOTE 3, PAGE 43. 
 
 " A rise" Sfc. 
 
 A trout is said to rise when he takes his food on the surface 
 of the water. 
 
 NOTE 4, PAGE 59. 
 " He draws the vital stream," Sfc. ROGERS.
 
 71 
 
 NOTE 5, PAGE 62. 
 " Yet short their stay," Sfc. 
 
 The wild agitation of the herd is caused by a small gadfly, 
 the cestrus-bovis of Linnaeus. Its object is to deposit its eggs 
 in the hide of the ox, which is not done without considerable 
 annoyance to the latter. This fly is provided with a small, 
 sharp, horny substance, not unlike an auger in miniature ; 
 with this it perforates the sides of oxen or deer for the recep- 
 tion of its eggs. From these punctures small tumours rise, 
 caused by the hatching and growth of the larvae. After a 
 certain time, they drop out, and no further inconvenience is 
 felt by the animal. See Kirby and Spence, " Introduction 
 to Entomology." 
 
 NOTE 6, PAGE 62. 
 " For now the Caddis" frc. 
 
 The caddis worms inhabit almost all clear running streams, 
 and are commonly known to anglers as case-worms. They 
 are the larvae of the various tribes of Phryganea. When 
 they undergo their transformation, they are commonly known 
 as the May-fly. 
 
 T. C. Savin, Printer, 4, Chanrios. street, Cerent- garden.
 
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