POETRY.

THE FISHERMEN.

THE quiet pastime of their choice On Beauly rocks, in Derwent glades,

Still seems to move to Walton's voice,

Singing of dace and dairy- maids : His water meadows still are wet, His brawling trout streams leap and glance, And on their sunlit ripples yet The flies of his disciples dance.

Anglers complete and incom- plete, The expert or the prentice hand, In friendly rivalry they meet By loch and river, sedge and sand ;

Enthusiasts all, of staid address, They go their way from cast to cast,

Alike, in failure or success, Sanguine and serious to the last.

Whether their lingering foot- steps pass Where Hampshire meadow- lands are green, And where the chalk stream clear as glass Goes by the pollard tops between ; Where when the warbler folds his wings And the pale summer moon comes out, The scented breath of twilight brings

The sacred hour of feeding trout—

Whether the river calls them forth,

That once a brown and modest burn Splashed down some hillside of the North

Through purple heather tufts and tern; That now flows by, a strenuous tide, From silent pool to chattering reach, Through whose dark depths the salmon glide

Beneath the rowan and the beech—

For them may no ambition match Fulfilment of the master's wish, To throw from dawn to dusk, and catch, If fortune will, the biggest fish : They live their life ; they dream their dream, • The earth beneath, the sky above, Their battlefield the running stream, Nature herself their only love.

In every mood, in every.dress They know her, and they find her fair ; Unchanged allegiance they con- fess Whatever robe she deign to wear — Her April green on wood and wold, The splendour of her summer blaze,

The gorgeous weeds of red and gold

With which she greets Octo- ber days.

Then, when their pensive task is done, The wayside hi stel's chimney seat Finds them, good comrades every one, Prepared their exploits to repeat; Each has his shifts of sight and touch, His own expedients each admires, Each follows still, though not too much, His own devices and desires.

So does the pastime of their choice, On Beauly rocks, in Dement glades, Still seem to move to Walton's voice, Singing of dace and dairy- maids ;

The flying centuries come and go,

But underneath the eternal sky, Where spring by spring the cowslips blow.

The gentle art his votaries ply.

ALFRED COCHRANE.