Even yet I feel around my heart the flush Of that calm, windless morning, glorified With summer sunshine brilliant and intense! A tiny boy, scarcely ten summers old, Along blue Esk, under the whispering trees, And by the crumbling banks, daisy-o'ergrown, A cloudless, livelong day I trode with one Whose soul was in his pastime, and whose skill Upon its shores that day no equal saw:-- O'er my small shoulders was the wicker creel Slung proudly, and the net whose meshes held The minnow, from the shallows deftly raised. Hour after hour augmenting our success, Turn'd what was pleasure first, to pleasant toil, Lent languor to my loitering steps, and gave Red to the cheek, and dew-damp to the brow: It was a day that cannot be forgot-- A jubilee in childhood's calendar-- A green hill-top seen o'er the billowy waste Of dim oblivion's flood:--and so it is, That on my morning couch--what time the sun Tinges the honeysuckle flowers with gold, That cluster round the porch--and in the calm Of evening meditation, when the past Spontaneously unfolds the treasuries Of half-forgotten and fragmental things, To memory's ceaseless roamings--it comes back, Fragrant and fresh, as if 'twere yesterday. From morn till noon, his light assiduous toil The angler plied; and when the mid-day sun Was high in heaven, under a spreading tree, (Methinks I hear the hum amid its leaves!) Upon a couch of wild-flowers, down we sat With healthful palates to our slight repast Of biscuits, and of cheese, and bottled milk; The sward our table, and the boughs our roof: And oh! in banquet hall, where richest cates Luxurious woo the pamper'd appetite, Never did viands proffer such delight, To Sybarite upon his silken couch, As did to us our simple fair that day. VI.