The Merrimack River: its source and its tributaries. Embracing a history of manufactures, and of the towns along its course; their geography, topography, and products, with a description of the magnificent natural scenery about its upper waters./ By J. W. Meader.

TIlE 1IERPPIMA1CK RIVER;
When, with his lively ray, the potent sun
Has pierced the streams and roused the finny race,
Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair;
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds.
High, to their fount, this day amid the hills
And woodlands, warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next, pursue their rocky-channelled maze
Down to the river, in whose ample wave
Their little Naiads love to sport at large.
Just in the dubious point, where, with the pool,
Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or, from the hollowed bank
Reverted, plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly,
And, as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive, mark the springing game.
Straight, as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or, urged by hunger, leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook;
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some,
With various hand proportioned to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceived,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space
He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckled captive throw; but should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behooves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly,
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear;
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he, desperate, takes the death,
With sullen plunge; at once he darts along,
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line,
When seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The caverned bank, his old secure abode,
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, new retiring, following now
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage;
Till, floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandoned, to the shore
You gayly drag your unresisting prey."
t, ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ HMO'.EAO18
THOMSON's SEASONS.
52