Sprightly story, wicked jest, Pulling and tugging the fisherman sate; And the priest was ready to vomit, When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat, And a nose as red as a comet. "A capital stew," the fisherman said, "With cinnamon and sherry!" And the abbot turned away his head, For his brother was lying before him dead, The mayor of St. Edmond's Bury! There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a bundle of beautiful things, A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings, A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl, A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl, Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, "Smile, lady, smile!—I will not set, Upon my brow, the coronet, Till thou wilt gather roses white, One jerk, and there a lady lay, A lady wondrous fair; But the rose of her lip had faded away, Ah, ha!" said the fisher, in merry guise, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, Tomes of heresy, loaded dice, And golden cups of the brightest wine That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre, As he came at last to a bishop's mitre! On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, When the lips are cracked, and the jaws are dry, As the swaling wherry settles down, When peril has numbed the sense and will, Though the hand and the foot may struggle still : Deeper far was the abbot's trance: He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer; The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow. There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, Oh, ho! Oh, ho! The cock doth crow; It is time for the fisher to rise and go. Fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine ! He hath knawed in twain my choicest line; Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, The abbot had preached for many years, As ever was heard in the House of Peers, His words had made battalions quake, And the king himself three-quarters: But ever, from that hour, 't is said, He stammered and he stuttered, As if an axe went through his head, He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, And none but he and the fisherman, Could tell the reason why! Friendship's Offering. AUTUMN. BY JOHN KEATS. SEASON of mist and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; Who hath not seen thee oft amidst thy store! Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind; Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Or by a cyder press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies! And full brown lambs bleat loud from hilly bourn; Hedge crickets sing; and now, with treble soft, The redbreast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies! London Magazine. LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN THE "IRISH MELODIES." ERIN! his heart of truth At length is wholly thine, Albeit, his careless youth Was spent 'mid "smiles and wine;" You watched his dawn of future fame, Through many a day of grief and shame, When cold apostate slaves withdrew the handYou held the high Harp to his eye, And wept to see your lone hope lie So long in Pleasure's bower, fettered in flowery band. The wizard hand that framed, In death, that knew the spell. Beneath his wondrous hand Each string, from soft to grand, From love to liberty! Oh! there be hearts (nor they the worst), Chains, then first with blushes worn; And eyes that darkly frowned, or lightened to a smile. Whether, by lonely stream, Or 'mid the trembling leaves, Wanders my waking dream Of life, that smiles and grieves ; — |