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 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 were loth to tell

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore,
O beauteous is that river still

As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'er-arching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades,
The honey-suckle 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's 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 venemous 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, as 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 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 monstrons fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left, and he looked to the right,
And what was the vision just before him
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'T was 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 sate 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 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 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 battles 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.

The loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a paternoster,

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 wher'eer the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said!
"A capital stew," the Fisherman said,
With cinamon and sherry"!

And the Abbot turned away his head,

For his brother was lying before him dead,
The Mayor of St. Edmond'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 musick 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
Have 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: