Captain Paton. But at length the Captain sicken'd, and grew worse from day to day,' All for wanting of the presence of our venerable beau ; And in spite of all that Cleghorn and Corkindale could do, Touch once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears be shed, For a prince of good old fellows that alack-a-day is dead, A prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also, HE Abbot arose, and closed his hood, And donn'd his sandal shoon, And wander'd forth, alone, to look A starlight sky was o'er his head, The Red Fisherman. 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 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 loth to tell. Companionless, for a mile or more, He traced the windings of the shore. Oh, beauteous is that river still, And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades But the Abbot was thinking of scenery, 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 The Red Fisherman. 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, 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 as 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 Red Fisherman. And the life blood colder run: The startled priest struck both his thighs. All alone, by the side of the pool, Had been fashion'd and form'd long ages ago, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Minnow or gentil, worm or fly It seem'd not such to the Abbot's eye: |