True gentlemen, kind and well bred!

No fleering! no distance! no scorn!

They asked after my wife who is dead, And my children who never were born.

They then, like high-principled Tories, Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, And a.s.sailed him with scandalous stories, Till the coach for the voters was ready.

That coach might be well called a casket Of learning and brotherly love: There were parsons in boot and in basket; There were parsons below and above.

There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches; A smug chaplain of plausible air, Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches.

Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host, Who, with arguments weighty as lead, Proves six times a week in the _Post_ That flesh somehow differs from bread.

Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup.

Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows, Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup; Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning, And wiping away perspiration; Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning The beast in St. John's Revelation.

A layman can scarce form a notion Of our wonderful talk on the road; Of the learning, the wit, and devotion, Which almost each syllable show'd: Why, divided allegiance agrees So ill with our free const.i.tution; How Catholics swear as they please, In hope of the priest's absolution:

How the Bishop of Norwich had barter'd His faith for a legate's commission; How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyr'd, Had stooped to a base coalition; How Papists are cased from compa.s.sion By bigotry, stronger than steel; How burning would soon come in fashion, And how very bad it must feel.

We were all so much touched and excited By a subject so direly sublime, That the rules of politeness were slighted, And we all of us talked at a time; And in tones, which each moment grew louder, Told how we should dress for the show, And where we should fasten the powder, And if we should bellow or no.

Thus from subject to subject we ran, And the journey pa.s.s'd pleasantly o'er, Till at last Dr. Humdrum began: From that time I remember no more.

At Ware he commenced his prelection, In the dullest of clerical drones: And when next I regained recollection We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

(1802-1839.)

LXIII. THE RED FISHERMAN; OR, THE DEVIL'S DECOY.

Published in Knight's _Annual_.

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 crozier 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 gra.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 thigh, 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 jem, 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 Glo'ster!

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 n.o.ble 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 peac.o.c.k's tail and a b.u.t.terfly'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 pa.s.sion'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 Sh.o.r.e!

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 l.u.s.tre, 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 swaling 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 c.o.c.k 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 Emanc.i.p.ation; 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 from 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!

LXIV. MAD--QUITE MAD.