To J. B.: On Sending Me a Seven-Pound Trout

FIT for an Abbot of Theleme,
For the whole Cardinals’ College, or
The Pope himself to see in dream
Before his lenten vision gleam,
He lies there, — the sogdologer !

His precious flanks with stars besprent,
Worthy to swim in Castaly!
The friend by whom such gifts are sent, —
For him shall bumpers full be spent, —
His health! be Luck his fast ally !

I see him trace the wayward brook
Amid the forest mysteries,
Where at themselves shy aspens look,
Or where, with many a gurgling crook,
It croons its woodland histories.

I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend
Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude
To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend,—
(O, stew him, Ann, as ’t were your friend,
With amorous solicitude !)

I see him step with caution due,
Soft as if shod with moccasins,
Grave as in church,—and who plies you,
Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew
From all our common stock o’ sins.

The unerring fly I see him cast,
That as a rose-leaf falls as soft,—
A flash! a whirl! he has him fast !
We tyros, —how that struggle last
Confuses and appalls us oft !

Unfluttered he ; calm as the sky
Looks on our tragicomedies,
This way and that he lets him fly,
A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die
Lands him with cool aplomb, at ease.

The friend who gave our board such gust, —
Life’s care, may he o’erstep it half,
And when Death hooks him, as he must,
He ’ll do it featly, as I trust,
And J. H. write his epitaph !

O, born beneath the Fishes’ sign,
Of constellations happiest,
May he somewhere with Walton dine,
May Horace send him Massic wine,
And Burns Scotch drink, — the nappiest !

And when they come his deeds to weigh,
And how he used the talents his,
One trout-scale in the scales he ’ll lay,
(If trout had scales,) and ’t will outsway
The wrong side of the balances.