Chapter XIV: Part VII (3)

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 water had slept for many a year
Unchanged and motionless;
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 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,
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?--
'O ho! O ho!
Above,--below,--
Lightly and brightly they glide and go!
The hungry and keen on 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!

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 sworn, as you looked on them,
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly,--
It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye;
Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fastened a gleaming hook about
By a chain within and a chain without;
The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!

From the bowels of the earth
Strange and varied sounds had birth:
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony!--
Cold by this was the midnight air

But the Abbot's blood ran colder,
When he saw a gasping Knight lie there,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster;
For he who writhed in mortal pain
Was camped that night on Bosworth plain--
The cruel Duke of Gloster!

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!

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.

Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales:
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words:
'Smile, Lady, smile! I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet.

Till thou wilt gather roses white
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, Lady, smile!--I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, Lady, smile! for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman's heart were rebel still?'

One jerk, and there a lady lay,
A lady wondrous fair;
But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.
'Ah, ha!' said the Fisher, in merry guise,
'Her gallant was hooked before;'
And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs,
For oft he had blessed those deep-blue eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside;
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
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!

From top to toe the Abbot shook,
As the Fisherman armed his golden hook,
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream or wakened thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry
With the thirst which only in death shall die:
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown
As the swirling wherry settles down,
When peril has numbed the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still:

Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer
But he signed--he knew not why or how,--
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.
'O ho! O 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 gnawed in twain my choicest line;
Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south,
The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!'

The Abbot had preached for many years
With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against Emancipation:
His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs,
Had kept the Court an hour awake,
And the King himself three-quarters:
But ever since that hour, 'tis said,
He stammered and he stuttered,
As if an axe went through his head
With every word he uttered.
He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban,
He stuttered drunk or dry;
And none but he and the Fisherman
Could tell the reason why!

W. M. PRAED.

_BOADICEA_

AN ODE

When the British warrior-queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Ev'ry burning word he spoke,
Full of rage and full of grief.

'Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.

'Rome shall perish--write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

'Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground--
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.

'Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.

'Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

'Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.

W. COWPER.

_ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT_

_FROM ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES_ [1831]

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height;
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

W. WORDSWORTH.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES
PAGE

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 13
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 81
Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, 265
Ah! what avails the sceptred race, 72
A lake and a fairy boat, 87
Allen-a-dale has no fagot for burning, 126
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 255
And is this--Yarrow?--This the Stream, 324
Annan Water's wading deep, 178
Arethusa arose, 191
As I was walking all alane, 78
As it fell upon a day, 206
A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 6
As slow our ship her foamy track, 65
At midnight, in the month of June, 207
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 343
Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise, 167
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 164
A weary lot is thine fair maid, 194

Behold her, single in the field, 90
Bird of the wilderness, 198
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 63

Come live with me and be my love, 135
Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 94
Could love for ever, 71

Down in yon garden sweet and gay, 163

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see, 89
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 92
Fair stood the wind for France, 18
Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 199
From Stirling Castle we had seen, 322
Full fathom five thy father lie, 71

Good people all, of every sort, 38

Hail to thee, blithe spirit, 203
Hear what Highland Nora said, 17
Helen, thy beauty is to me, 198
Hence, loathèd Melancholy, 144
Hence, vain deluding Joys, 150
Henry was every morning fed, 268
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 270
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 285
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 88

I am monarch of all I survey, 276
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 121
If I had thought thou couldst have died, 100
I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 128
I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 182
In a drear-nighted December, 311
In the greenest of our valleys, 240
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 142
I remember, I remember, 3
It fell about the Lammas tide, 286
It is an ancient Mariner, 215
It was a' for our rightfu' King, 68
It was many and many a year ago, 96
It was the schooner Hesperus, 46
I've heard them lilting, at the ewe-milking, 137
I wandered lonely as a cloud, 119
I wish I were where Helen lies, 115

John Gilpin was a citizen, 28

Little Lamb, who made thee? 4
Look not thou on beauty's charming, 73
Loving friend, the gift of one, 51

Merry it is in the good greenwood, 55
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 86

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 108
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, 257

O blithe New-comer! I have heard, 113
O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 40
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 62
Of Nelson and the North, 43
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 8
Oft in the stilly night, 184
O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde, 248
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story, 111
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, 211
O listen, listen, ladies gay, 213
O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 66
_Once_ it smiled a silent dell, 107
On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest, 109
On Linden, when the sun was low, 36
Orpheus with his lute made trees, 77
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, 27
O, wert thou in the cauld blast, 61
O where have you been, my long, long love, 102
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, 45

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, 176
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 82
Proud Maisie is in the wood, 92

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, 80

Ruin seize thee, ruthless King, 243

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 67
Sing Erlington and Cowdenknowes where Homes had ance commanding, 284
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king, 210
So, we'll go no more a roving, 181

Tell me not (sweet) I am unkind, 102
That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 94
That way look, my Infant, lo! 271
The Abbot arose, and closed his book, 331
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 82
The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 278
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 298
The day is done, and the darkness, 192
The dews of summer night did fall, 200
The glories of our blood and state, 177
The harp that once through Tara's halls, 70
The king sits in Dunfermline toun, 259
The Love that I have chosen, 106
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 68
The mountain sheep are sweeter, 187
The noon was shady, and soft airs, 50
The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade, 95
The skies they were ashen and sober, 138
The sun descending in the west, 5
The sun upon the lake is low, 74
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 123
There is a garden in her face, 176
There lived a wife at Usher's Well, 124
They shot him dead on the Nine-Stone Rig, 111
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 330
This is the month, and this the happy morn, 303
Thou wast all to me, love, 79
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 312
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won, 129
Twist ye, twine ye! even so, 101

Under a spreading chestnut tree, 37

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 12
We sat within the farm-house old, 185
We walked along, while bright and red, 195
We wander'd to the pine forest, 159
When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte, 171
When icicles hang by the wall, 95
When Love with unconfinèd wings, 117
When maidens such as Hester die, 120
When my mother died I was very young, 16
When the British warrior-queen, 341
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 161
When the voices of children are heard on the green, 1
Where shall the lover rest, 247
Where the bee sucks, there suck I, 181
Where the pools are bright and deep, 2
Where the remote Bermudas ride, 183
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, 85
Whither, 'midst falling dew, 179
Who is Silvia? what is she, 73
Who would true valour see, 274
Why weep ye by the tide, ladie, 156
With sweetest milk and sugar first, 25

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, 64
Ye Mariners of England, 22
Yesterday was brave Hallowday, 326
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 291
You meaner beauties of the night, 175

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