To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.
Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon carolling lark?
Takest thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove,
Warms its wild note with nuptial love-
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.
"O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"-Romeo and Juliet.
HE abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donn'd his sandal shoon,
And wander'd forth, alone, to look
Upon the summer moon:
A starlight sky was o'er his head,
A quiet breeze around;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:
It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;
Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that gurgled by,
But he thought not of the reeds: He clasp'd his gilded rosary,
But he did not tell the beads:
If he look'd to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke
The Spirit that dwelleth there;
If he open'd his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.
A pious priest might the abbot seem,
He had sway'd the crosier well;
But what was the theme of the abbot's dream,
The abbot were loath to tell.
Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.—
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,
And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers !
But the abbot was thinking of scenery,
About as much, in sooth,
As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head;
He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;
And nearer he came, and still more near,
To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year,
Unchanged, and motionless;
From the river stream it spread away,
The space of half a rood;
The surface had the hue of clay,
And the scent of human blood;
The trees and the herbs that round it grew
Were venomous and foul;
And the birds that through the bushes flew
Were the vulture and the owl;
The water was as dark and rank
As ever a Company pump'd;
And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank,
Grew rotten while it jump'd;
And bold was he who thither came,
At midnight, man or boy;
For the place was cursed with an evil name,
And that name was "The Devil's Decoy!"
The abbot was weary as abbot could be,
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree :
When suddenly rose a dismal tone,—
Was it a song, or was it a moan?
"Oh, ho! Oh, ho!
Above, below!—
Lightly and brightly they glide and go:
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!"
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He look'd to the left, and he look'd to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:
The startled priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!
All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legg'd stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tatter'd flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double;
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny skin,
Till it hardly cover'd the bones within.
The line the abbot saw him throw,
Had been fashion'd and form'd long ages ago:
And the hands that work'd his foreign vest,
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:
You would have sworn, as you look'd on them,
He had fish'd in the flood with Ham and Shem!
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly,—
It seem'd not such to the abbot's eye:
Gaily it glitter'd with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fasten'd a gleaming hook about,
By a chain within, and a chain without;
The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizz'd as it tumbled in!
From the bowels of the earth,
Strange and varied sounds had birth;
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echo'd from the dungeon stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony!
Cold by this was the midnight air;
But the abbot's blood ran colder,
When he saw a gasping knight lie there,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster;
For he who writhed in mortal pain
Was camp'd that night on Bosworth plain,
The cruel Duke of Glo'ster!
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent abbot knew full well
The swelling form, and the steaming smell;
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guess'd the very wood,
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded, at close of day.
Sounded then the noisy glee
Of a revelling company;
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork:
But, where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said!
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