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134
THE FISHERMAN.
I
John Wimble was a fisherman,Whose locks of iron-gray hung down,
Curling upon his shoulders broad;
He had seen threescore winters' frown
Above his head on land or sea,
And was at last moored tranquilly.
II
His face was brown, by winds made hard,His voice was deep, and clear, and loud,
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His brow had also once been proud;
But age had left its track behind,
Like sea-shores worn by wave and wind.
III
A smuggler in his youth was he,Few knew the name he bore when young;
But of that crew he was the last,
The rest were shot, or drowned, or hung,
And many a dreadful tale he knew,
Of that swift ship, and fearless crew.
IV
He long had left that dangerous life,And up the river lived alone;
A little island on the Trent,
A little hut he called his own,
With no companion, save when I,
A boy, could bear him company.
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V
He loved to row his boat by night,When all around the air was still,
To bait his hooks, and cast his lines,
Where shadows deepened 'neath the hill.
'Twas then some old sea-stave he'd sing,
That made the silent darkness ring.
VI
Or seated where the willows waved,Gazing upon the blue-arched sky,
He'd fold his arms in thoughtful mood,
While tears gushed from each deep-sunk eye;
I wondered then, but since that time,
Have found how thoughts and feelings chime.
VII
Some deemed he was a surly man;But they knew not his griefs and fears,
137
Whose image lay “too deep for tears,”
To which his heart unchanged had stood
Through breeze and battle, fire and flood.
VIII
He had no kindred whom he knew,No social converse to enjoy;
He left his village-home when young,
But came not back again a boy.
Year after year had come and gone,
His parents died, nor heard of John.
IX
Year after year—long were they dead,When home he journeyed o'er the waves,
Garden and cot were desolate—
One night he spent beside their graves;
Then on that island lone and drear,
He built a hut, and sheltered there.
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X
How first I won the old man's love,It boots not now for me to tell;
I went his journeys to the town,
I strove my best and pleased him well,
And for him many a time forsook
My home, my playmates, school and book.
XI
And many a tale was my reward,How ship chased ship upon the sea,
'Mid rolling waves and shouting winds,
And thunders pealing dreadfully,
While lightnings flashed athwart the deep,
O'er rocks up which the waves did leap.
XII
Of gory decks, and yard-arms joined,When ships were boarded hand to hand;
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With dirk and pistol, blade and brand,
Till loud the dread explosion rung,
While mast and spar around were flung.
XIII
How some jumped shrieking in the waves,And some were heaved up to the sky,
The dead and dying side by side,
While yell, and shout, and piercing cry,
Joined with the cannons' hollow roar,
Startled the sea-birds from the shore.
XIV
Then on that little island green,Which to the breeze was ever free,
At evening-time before his door,
He'd walk as when on deck at sea,
With one hand on his bosom placed;
While memory many a past scene traced.
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XV
His little bark was moored hard by,The village-bells in distance ringing,
The waves made music round his home,
And murmured while the birds were singing;
While here and there a distant sail
Gleamed o'er green Ashcroft's winding vale.
XVI
But years have rolled by since he died;That island is his resting-place;
His lonely grave you yet may see,
But of his hut there is no trace.
And there the bittern plumes her wing,
While winds and waves around him sing.
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