THE THREE SILVER TROUTS.

Behind yon hill a river flows,

So limpid, smooth, and clear,
You might suppose some water-nymph
Had made her toilette there.

How this may be I cannot say,
For water-nymphs, I ween,
When they arrange their flowing hair,
Are shy of being seen.

But this I know, when summer winds
Breath'd softly o'er that tide,
Kissing each little bashful flower
That decorates its side;

Three silver trouts you might descry,
Beneath those waters gliding;

Or, when the clouds their screen withdrew,
Among the rushes hiding.

Prettier fishes never graced

A river's pebbly bed;

All silver were their glossy scales,
Their gills all coral-red.

Now, He Who dwells above the sky,
Supremely great and good,
Aye providently cared for them,
Sending them light and food.

Yet two-with grief I tell the tale,
To their best interests blind,
Were not content to trust their fate
To One so good and kind.

But aye for this thing wish'd, and that;
And, in their sinfulness,

Would scorn the present good, and crave
What they did not possess.

Now ere, in our great wisdom, we

These little fishes blame,

'Twere well to ask our hearts, if we Don't often act the same.

In man or fish, it is quite wrong;
And He-the Good and Wise,

Sees fit such folly to rebuke,

And sometimes to chastise.

O, it was glorious to look down
Through many a floating cloud,
On all the fishes in the world-
No wonder he felt proud!

The very heavens above his head
Seem'd scarce a flight too high;
And, as he skimm'd along, he thought
"How great a trout am I!"

He speeded on o'er many a plain,—
Many a heath-clad hill;

And brook that wander'd through the vale,
Or turned the busy mill.

He travers'd meadow, moor, and wood,

But, ere the fall of night,

Sore press'd by thirst and hunger, thought 'Twere better to alight.

Did he forget, poor little fool!
How many a mile away

Was that sweet river's flowery banks,
Where first he saw the day?

He lighted down on burning sands,
But nothing could espy,

His thirst and hunger to assuage-
Nor juice, nor worm, nor fly.

Long, long beneath that scorching sun
He beat his wings in vain,
Till, gasping, fainting, he expir'd
In wretchedness and pain.

The second little trout, although
Less pride, I own, he had,
Was narrow-hearted, selfish, mean-
Faults every whit as bad.

"If all the fishes in the world,"
(Thus thought this sordid elf,)
"Were dead and gone, I shouldn't care,
So I were safe myself.

"What is't to me how others fare,

How others feel and think?
Or why need I concern myself,
Whether they float or sink?"

Now here he made a grand mistake,
Like all such selfish elves,
Who little think how poor the joy
That centres in ourselves.

Meanwhile, my story to pursue-
Thus spake the second trout:

May't please your Honour, those high flights
I think not much about.

"A cord descended cautiously,

Then, dipping in the river,

It fasten'd round the gills-(the thought
Alone quite makes me shiver!)

"Of a poor heedless little fish-
He gave one fatal bite,

And then he writhed about in pain,
Till jerk'd away from sight.

"On which I thought within myself,
Since such mischances be,
How know I but this very thing
Might happen unto me?

"Now all I supplicate is that
To me you will relate
The cause and nature of those ills
Which mortal fish await."

No sooner said than done-our trout
Straightway grew wondrous wise;
(They need rise early who would think
Such wisdom to surprise.)

Thenceforth he dangers understood,
Knew every subtle wile,

Each snare which lordly man employs
Poor fishes to beguile.

"The happiest of the finny tribe,"
Cried he, "I now shall be ;

Forewarned, forearmed-then say what harm
Can happen unto me?"

From that time forth, those deep cool parts
He heretofore enjoyed,
Disporting free, 'twas now his care
And practice to avoid.

"For," as he argued, "how know I
But that some pike's wide jaw
Awaits me there? and I've no mind
To fill his hungry maw."

What time the gale of evening swept
Along that pleasant stream,
Or its pure face was lighted up
By morning's rosy beam-

He rarely to the surface rose,

"For," he would shrewdly cry,

"The sun might drink this shallow stream, And leave me high and dry."

Let but some harmless passing cloud
Flit o'er that tranquil tide-
"Here come those fishermen, with nets
To capture me," he cried.

Or say he spied a worm, or fly,
Skimming along the water,

(Things which in better times had found
From him but little quarter)—

However hungry he might feel,
And longing to be snapping,

He pass'd them by; with "Honest friends,
Think not to catch me napping."

And thus, poor wretch! he kept himself
In a perpetual fright;
Throughout the day he knew no peace,
Nor any rest by night.

Now sure I am, if there be aught
Stomach-complaint begetting,
The habit 'tis (ask mortals else)
Of carping, caring, fretting.

No wonder, then, our trout had soon
Become so weak and thin,
That scarce a trace of him remain'd
But his poor shrivell❜d skin.

At length he died; another proof
Of what I've often said,

It will not do to strive to stand
In Providence's stead.

That He our welfare best can guard

'Twere foolishness to doubt;

Thus thought and spake the youngest fish,

That precious little trout.

"Thou know'st, great Power, how weak I am,"

(Pleaded this darling fish,)

"I hardly know which way to go,

Far less to (wisely) wish;

"But since it is Thy gracious Will
That I a wish should name-
As Thou hast ever been to me,
Still be to me the same!

"Of this I'm certain, whatsoe'er
Thy wisdom shall decree,

Sickness or health, gladness or woe,

That thing is best for me."