Volume 156 — TO A MARCH BROWN, SWALLOWED ALIVE.

Rash insect with your jaunty air The troubled stream serenely riding, How guessed you not that Death was there Nor feared the hungry trout in hiding? Did instinct, friend of helpless things, Not bid you rise and use your wings? Alas, the widening ripple showed Around the spot which lately bore you, And down you went the deadly road Where many a fly has gone before you, One victim more to swell the pride Of golden tum and spotted side. Yet know (if any ghost of you Or delicate spirit's left to know it) That I've a fly which never flew (Your likeness) and the skill to throw it; And I that saw the fatal rise Marked where a fat half-pounder lies. Thither will I with reel and rod And cure his taste for dainty dishes By favour of whatever god Decides the destiny of fishes; And that were vengeance passing sweet— Your captor on your counterfeit!