On Sunday mornings, freed from hard employ, How oft I mark the mischievous young boy With anxious haste his pole and lines provide, For make-shifts oft crook’d pins to thread were tied; And delve his knife with wishes ever warm In rotten dunghills for the grub and worm, The harmless treachery of his hooks to bait; Tracking the dewy grass with many a mate, To seek the brook that down the meadows glides, Where the grey willow shadows by its sides, Where flag and reed in wild disorder spread, And bending bulrush bows its taper head; And, just above the surface of the floods, Where water-lilies mount their snowy buds, On whose broad swimming leaves of glossy green The shining dragon-fly is often seen: Where hanging thorns, with roots wash’d bare, appear, That shield the moor-hen’s nest from year to year; While crowding osiers mingling wild among Prove snug asylums to her brood when young, Who, when surpris’d by foes approaching near, Plunge ’neath the weeping boughs and disappear. There far from terrors that the parson brings, Or church bell hearing when its summons rings, Half hid in meadow-sweet and keck’s high flowers, In lonely sport they spend the Sunday hours. Though ill supplied for fishing seem the brook, That breaks the mead in many a stinted crook, Oft choak’d in weeds, and foil’d to find a road, The choice retirement of the snake and toad, Then lost in shallows dimpling restlessly, In fluttering struggles murmuring to be free,-- O’er gravel stones its depth can scarcely hide It runs remnant of its broken tide, Till, seemly weary of each choak’d control, It rests collected in some gulled hole Scoop’d by the sudden floods when winter’s snow Melts in confusion by a hasty thaw; There bent in hopeful musings on the brink They watch their floating corks that seldom sink, Save when a wary roach or silver bream Nibbles the worm as passing up the stream, Just urging expectation’s hopes to stay To view the dodging cork, then slink away; Still hopes keep burning with untir’d delight, Still wobbling curves keep wavering like a bite: If but the breezy wind their floats should spring, And move the water with a troubling ring, A captive fish still fills the anxious eyes And willow-wicks lie ready for the prize; Till evening gales awaken damp and chill, And nip the hopes that morning suns instil; And resting flies have tired their gauzy wing, Nor longer tempt the watching fish to spring, Who at the worm no nibbles more repeat, But lunge from night in sheltering flag-retreat. Then disappointed in their day’s employ, They seek amusement in a feebler joy. Short is the sigh for fancies prov’d untrue: With humbler hopes still pleasure they pursue Where the rude oak-bridge scales the narrow pass