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 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, But what was the theme of the abbot's dream, Companionless, for a mile or more And rocks whose very crags seem bowers, 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 He did not mark how the mossy path And nearer he came, and still more near, The waters had slept for many a year, From the river stream it spread away, The space The surface had the hue of clay, And the scent of human blood; The trees and the herbs that round it grew And the birds that through the bushes flew 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, The abbot was weary as abbot could be, Oh, ho! Oh, ho! Lightly and brightly they glide and go: The startled priest struck both his thighs, LESSON 24. THE LEGEND OF THE RED FISHERMAN. (Continued.) All alone, by the side of the pool Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago; 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; Could better have guessed the very wood Of a revelling company; 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 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. |