In early days, when streams ran pure,
Untainted from their spring,
Unchok'd by sawmill dust, or logs,
Or any other thing,
Each river, creek and rill ran on,
So pure, and free, and bright,
That through the gloomy shades, they shed
A cheerful, happy light.
The finny tribes, of varied kinds,
Ran swiftly to and fro,
And with most swift and graceful dart,
The speckl'd trout did go.
So swift to dash, and quick to see,
He caught the fatal fly,
Before less active fishes had
E'en turn'd to it their eye;
For, ever active and alert,
At once, or not at all,
He caught the tempting bait he saw
Upon the waters fall.
These were the days to angler dear,
When, with his hook and line,
He brought his treasures from the brook,
So splendid and so fine.
Each angler had his fav'rite spot,
Wherein he held his breath,
To watch the fishes rush and plunge,
So sure to bring its death.
But now the angler rarely throws
With great delight, his line,
Or listens to the rippling brook,
Beside the wild grape vine.
The finny treasures now are scarce,
In river, creek or rill,
For poison'd are they by the dust,
That comes from lumber mill.
The picturesque and shady grove,
Which streamlets hurried by,
Are now uncover'd by the sun;
Full many a stream is dry.
The poet's land is going fast;
Wild beauty must give place
To useful and substantial things,
Which benefit our race.
But who shall e'er forget the joys,
When, from some shady nook
He flung his fly, with practic'd hand,
Far out upon the brook?