THE BIG TROUT.

Pull up the rypecks! Push her home! It's roses all the way! Let garlands lie on Thames's foam— A trout has died to-day! Room for the victor—ho, there, room!— Who calls the gods to scan No halfling of the lilied gloom, But that leviathan. Anew (with jostling words unstayed) We fight it, inch by inch, From that first moment when he made The line scream off the winch; 'Twas so we struck, we held him so Lest weed had triumph wrecked; Thus to his leap the point dropped low, And thus a rush was checked. O sought-for prize! Full many a day The old black punt has swung Beyond his stance, in twilight's grey, Or when the dawn was young; What hopes were ours, what heart-beats high Have thrilled us, when he rolled Up from the jade-green deep, a-nigh, Dull-gleaming as of gold! Glide on, ye stately swans, with grace— Ye ne'er again shall see His headlong dash among the dace Beneath the willow-tree; Ye little bleak, lift up your heads, Ye gudgeon, skip at score, The run between the lily beds Shall know its lord no more! Yet, while th' exalted pulses stir, Regret takes hands with Pride, Regret for that most splendid spur— The Wish Ungratified; With hammering heart that bulk I con, That spread of tail and fin, And sigh, like him of Macedon, With no more worlds to win. Pull up the rypecks, can't you, Jim! It's roses all the way! But ne'er another fish like him For any other day! Room for the victor—lock, there, room!— Who calls the gods to scan No halfling of the amber gloom, But that leviathan.