A "Rise"
Under the shadows of a cliff
Crowned with a growth of stately pine
An angler moors his rocking skiff
And o’er the ripple casts his line,
And where the darkling current crawls
Like thistle-down the gay lure falls.
Then from the depths a silver gleam
Quick flashes, like a jewel bright,
Up through the waters of the stream
An instant visible to sight—
As lighting cleaves the sombre sky
The black bass rises to the fly.