THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.

OF all the gracious gifts of Spring,

Is there another can surpass

This delicate, voluptuous thing,—

This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?

Upon a damask napkin laid,

What exhalations superfine

Our gustatory nerves pervade,

Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!

The ancients loved this noble fish;

And, coming from the kitchen fire

All piping hot upon a dish,

What raptures did he not inspire?

“Fish should swim twice,” they used to say,—

Once in their native, vapid brine,

And then again, a better way —

You understand; fetch on the wine!

Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,

How often have I cast for you,

How often sadly seen you scud

Where weeds and water-lilies grew!

How often have you filched my bait,

How often snapped my treacherous line!

Yet here I have you on this plate,—

You shall swim twice, and now in wine.

And, harkee, garcon! let the blood

Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,—

Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood

This piscatorial pride should swim;

So, were he living, he would say

He gladly died for me and mine,

And, as it were his native spray,

He'd lash the sauce — what, ho! the wine!

I would it were ordained for me

To share your fate, O finny friend!

I surely were not loath to be

Reserved for such a noble end;

For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,

At last reels in his ruthless line,

What were my ecstasy to swim

In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!

Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!

And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,

Come hither every year and bring

The boons provocative of mirth;

And should your stock of bass run low,

However much I might repine,

I think I might survive the blow,

If plied with wine and still more wine!