Speaking of recreation, Izaak Walton’s joy as a contemplative man has been mine from youth; as witness these three fishing sonnets, just found in the faded ink of three or four decades ago, which may give a gleam of country sunshine on a page or two, and would have rejoiced my piscatorial friends Kingsley and Leech in old days, and will not be unacceptable to Attwood Matthews, Cholmondeley Pennell, and the Marstons with their friend Mr. Senior in these.  I have had various luck as an angler from Stennis Lake to the Usk, from Enniskillen to Killarney, from Isis to Wotton,—­and so it would be a pity if I omitted such an authorial characteristic; especially as my stammering obliged me to “study to be quiet.”

    I.

    “Look, like a village Queen of May, the stream
      Dances her best before the holiday sun,
      And still, with musical laugh, goes tripping on
    Over these golden sands, which brighter gleam
      To watch her pale-green kirtle flashing fleet
      Above them, and her tinkling silver feet
    That ripple melodies:  quick,—­yon circling rise
      In the calm refluence of this gay cascade
    Marked an old trout, who shuns the sunny skies,
      And, nightly prowler, loves the hazel shade: 
    Well thrown!—­you hold him bravely,—­off he speeds,
      Now up, now down,—­now madly darts about,—­
    Mind, mind your line among those flowering reeds,—­
      How the rod bends,—­and hail, thou noble trout!”

    II.

    “O, thou hast robbed the Nereids, gentle brother,
      Of some swift fairy messenger; behold,—­
      His dappled livery prankt with red and gold
    Shows him their favourite page:  just such another
        Sad Galataea to her Acis sent
      To teach the new-born fountain how to flow,
        And track with loving haste the way she went
    Down the rough rocks, and through the flowery plain,
      Ev’n to her home where coral branches grow,
    And where the sea-nymph clasps her love again: 
        We the while, terrible as Polypheme,
      Brandish the lissom rod, and featly try
      Once more to throw the tempting treacherous fly
        And win a brace of trophies from the stream.”

    III.

    “Come then, coy Zephyr, waft my feathered bait
        Over this rippling shallow’s tiny wave
        To yonder pool, whose calmer eddies lave
    Some Triton’s ambush, where he lies in wait
      To catch my skipping fly; there drop it lightly: 
        A rise, by Glaucus!—­but he missed the hook,—­
        Another—­safe! the monarch of the brook,
      With broadside like a salmon’s, gleaming brightly: 
        Off let him race, and waste his prowess there;
        The dread of Damocles, a single hair,
    Will tax my skill to take this fine old trout;
      So,—­lead him gently; quick, the net, the net! 
    Now gladly lift the glittering beauty out,
      Hued like a dolphin, sweet as violet.”