The Red Fisherman.

Pulling and tugging the fisherman sat;
And the priest was ready to vomit,

When he haul'd 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 turn'd 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 roll'd,
That the abbot fell on his face, and fainted,
And deem'd his spirit was half-way sainted

Sounds seem'd dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smother'd 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,

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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 cold as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.

"Ah, ha!" said the fisher, in merry guise,

"Her gallant was hook'd before;"

And the abbot heaved some piteous sighs,
For oft he had bless'd 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 press'd 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 arm'd his golden hook;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream, or waken'd thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes

On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are crack'd, and the jaws are dry,

The Red Fisherman.

With the thirst which only in death shall die:
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown,

As the swaling wherry settles down,

When peril has numb'd 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:
Fix'd as a monument, still as air,

He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer;
But he sign'd,-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 stalk'd away with his iron box.

"Oh, ho! Oh, 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 gnaw'd in twain my choicest line;

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Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, The abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!"

The abbot had preach'd 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 ;

He kept the court an hour awake,
And the king himself three-quarters:

But ever from that hour, 'tis said,

He stammer'd and he stutter'd,

As if an axe went through his head,
With every word he utter'd.

He stutter'd o'er blessing, he stutter'd o'er ban,
He stutter'd, drunk or dry;

And none but he and the fisherman.

Could tell the reason why!

America and England.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

HOUGH ages long have pass'd,

THOU

Since our fathers left their home,

Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravell'd seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins;

And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame

By its chains ?

While the language free and bold
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of Heaven rung

When Satan, blasted, fell with all his host;
While these with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,

And from rock to rock repeat,

Round our coast!

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,
Between let ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the sun;

Yet still from either beach

The voice of blood shall reach,—

More audible than speech,

We are one!

To Mont Blanc.

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To Mont Blanc.

OUNTAIN,-who reignest o'er thine Alpine

peers

Transcendently, and from that massive crown
Of arrowy brightness dartest down thy beams
Upon their lesser coronets,—all hail!
Unto the souls in hallow'd musing rapt,
Spirits in which creation's glorious forms
Do shadow forth and speak the invisible,
The ethereal, the eternal, thou dost shine
With emblematic brightness. Those untrod
And matchless domes, though many a weary league
Beyond the gazer, when the misty veil

Dies round them, start upon his dazzled sight

In vastness almost tangible; thy smooth

And bold convexity of silent snows

Raised on the still and dark blue firmament!

Mountain,-Thou image of eternity!—

Oh, let not foreign feet, inquisitive,

Swift in untrain'd aspirings, proudly tempt
Thy searchless waste!—What half-taught fortitude
Can balance unperturb'd above the clefts

Of yawning and unfathomable ice

That moat thee round; or wind the giddy ledge
Of thy sheer granite! Hath he won his way,
That young investigator? Yes; but now,
Quick panting on superior snows, his frame
Trembles in dizziness; his wandering look
Drinks pale confusion; the wide scene is dim;
It's all of firm or fleeting, near or far,

Deep rolling clouds beneath, and wavering mists