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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,
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 clasped his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads:

If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke
The Spirit that dwelleth there ;

If he opened his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.

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 was loth 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 waters had slept for many a year,
Unchanged and motionless;

From the river stream it spread away,
of half a rood;

The space

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 hither 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 to 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 looked to the left, and he looked 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!

LESSON 24.

THE LEGEND OF THE RED

FISHERMAN.

(Continued.)

All alone, by the side of the pool
A tall man sat on a three-legged 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 tattered 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 shrivelled that tawny skin,
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the abbot saw him throw

Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago;
And the hands that worked his foreign vest,
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:

You would have said, as you looked on them,

He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

I.

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 guessed 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!
Pulling and tugging the fisherman sat;
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. Edmund's Bury!

II.

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,

And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours rolled,

That the abbot fell on his face and fainted,

And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.

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