THE RED FISHERMAN. Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Romeo and Juliet. THE abbot arose, and closed his book, And donned his sandal shoon, And wandered 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, It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought He gazed on the river that gurgled by, He clasped his gilded rosary, But he did not tell the beads; If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke If he opened his lips, the words they spoke A pious priest might the abbot seem, He had swayed the crosier well; But what was the theme of the abbot's dream, The abbot were loth to tell. Companionless, for a mile or more, And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades And rocks, whose very crags seemed 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 He did not mark how the mossy path 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 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 pumped; And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped: And bold was he who thither came At midnight, man or boy; For the place was cursed with an evil name, The abbot was weary as abbot could be, Was it a song, or was it a moan? "Oh, oh! Oh, oh! Above, below! Lightly and brightly they glide and go; And the life-blood colder run: The startled priest struck both his thighs, All alone, by the side of the pool, Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, It seemed not such to the abbot's eye; The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin, From the bowels of the earth, Cold by this was the midnight air; To mutter a Pater Noster; For he who writhed in mortal pain Was camped 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; Could better have guessed the very wood |