 | The Shad-Fishers |  |
5
THE SHAD-FISHERS.
All in the merry month of May,
When snowy shad-trees blossomed gay,
To tell the fisherman the time,
When fish were plentiful and prime:
When snowy shad-trees blossomed gay,
To tell the fisherman the time,
When fish were plentiful and prime:
All in the merry month of May,
Where Turner's pouring waters play,
And lash, and dash, and roar, and bray,
Were wont to gather, there and then,
Fishers of SHAD, and not of men.
Where Turner's pouring waters play,
And lash, and dash, and roar, and bray,
Were wont to gather, there and then,
Fishers of SHAD, and not of men.
All in the merry month of May,
Back many years on Time's highway,
Upon old-time “Election Day,”
I've heard gray-headed worthies say,
Not only fishermen, so wet
With sweeping seine and scooping net,
But other folk would muster there
As now they gather at a Fair.
From all the region round about
They came, the gentleman and lout;
The yeoman, whose spring-work was done,
Resolved to have one day of fun;
The peddler with his gew-gaws fine,
And ballads, dog'rel, not divine;
The bully of the country-side
In all the swell of hero pride;
The gamester who was skilled to know
The science of a lucky throw;
The loafer, whose “chief end of man,”
Was, Go it, cripples! while you can;
The verdant youth from hill side green,
Come down to see what might be seen,
And treat the dolce whom he led
To penny-cake and gingerbread;—
A motley crowd of beings, wishing
To see each other and the fishing.
Back many years on Time's highway,
Upon old-time “Election Day,”
I've heard gray-headed worthies say,
Not only fishermen, so wet
With sweeping seine and scooping net,
But other folk would muster there
As now they gather at a Fair.
From all the region round about
They came, the gentleman and lout;
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Resolved to have one day of fun;
The peddler with his gew-gaws fine,
And ballads, dog'rel, not divine;
The bully of the country-side
In all the swell of hero pride;
The gamester who was skilled to know
The science of a lucky throw;
The loafer, whose “chief end of man,”
Was, Go it, cripples! while you can;
The verdant youth from hill side green,
Come down to see what might be seen,
And treat the dolce whom he led
To penny-cake and gingerbread;—
A motley crowd of beings, wishing
To see each other and the fishing.
Now, ye who read these truthful rhymes,
And live in these noise-making times,
When dams, and mills, and paddle-boats
And other craft the water floats,
With all their din and clickmaclaver
Scare off the red-fins from the river,—
Can scarce conceive what schools of shad
Made our old fisher fathers glad.
Their numbers did exceed almost
The rapt one's countless heavenly host.
Upon the bottom of the river
Their fins like leaves were seen to quiver;
And leaping salmon, tho' less plenty,
Were grand as royal One-and-Twenty.
A single haul would bring ashore
Some forty, fifty, sixty score;
The fisher who the scoop would duck
Would get St. Peter's sacred luck;
A few hours' toil, and you might heed
Shad piled like hay-cocks in a mead.
And live in these noise-making times,
When dams, and mills, and paddle-boats
And other craft the water floats,
With all their din and clickmaclaver
Scare off the red-fins from the river,—
Can scarce conceive what schools of shad
Made our old fisher fathers glad.
Their numbers did exceed almost
The rapt one's countless heavenly host.
Upon the bottom of the river
Their fins like leaves were seen to quiver;
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Were grand as royal One-and-Twenty.
A single haul would bring ashore
Some forty, fifty, sixty score;
The fisher who the scoop would duck
Would get St. Peter's sacred luck;
A few hours' toil, and you might heed
Shad piled like hay-cocks in a mead.
Then, some facetious ones have said
That folk so much on fish were fed,
One scarce could draw his shirt o'erhead;
His skin with fish bones bristly grew,
And held the garment as he drew.
They must have been most scaly persons,
Themselves, to venture such assertions;
And all of us would now be glad
To “make no bones,” had we the shad.
That folk so much on fish were fed,
One scarce could draw his shirt o'erhead;
His skin with fish bones bristly grew,
And held the garment as he drew.
They must have been most scaly persons,
Themselves, to venture such assertions;
And all of us would now be glad
To “make no bones,” had we the shad.
Ye who with rod, and line, and hook,
Stray luckless by some well-tried brook,
And feel with joy constrained to shout
When you have hooked a span-long trout;
And deem a dozen will repay
Your drenching on a drizzling day;—
Ye who will sit beside the stream
Which gives my piscatory theme,
Perched like a crane on flood-wood roots,
A Job in patience in your boots,
But unlike Jonah fain to quibble
About some mighty, whale-like nibble,
When all your spoils at last are seen
A fly-blown string of shiners mean;
Waiting for luck there was no need of
In these departed days you read of;
Fishing was then not only sport,
But labor of the earnest sort.
Stray luckless by some well-tried brook,
And feel with joy constrained to shout
When you have hooked a span-long trout;
And deem a dozen will repay
Your drenching on a drizzling day;—
Ye who will sit beside the stream
Which gives my piscatory theme,
Perched like a crane on flood-wood roots,
A Job in patience in your boots,
But unlike Jonah fain to quibble
About some mighty, whale-like nibble,
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A fly-blown string of shiners mean;
Waiting for luck there was no need of
In these departed days you read of;
Fishing was then not only sport,
But labor of the earnest sort.
No drouth like ours existed then
Among those ancient fishermen;
Not that of which the sun has merit,
I mean drouth of Jamaica spirit.
No dry Maine-law was then in force,
But quite as much observed, of course;
The diff'rence being,—who can doubt it?—
There was less quibbling then about it.
Rule, Temperance! but of thy dominion
The Muse will query one opinion:
Which of the two is better, pray?
To drink the “stuff” in open day,
To clink a glass to others' health,
Or to the good, old Commonwealth,
And own outright to fellow men
You love a noggin, now and then;
Or sneak into some hole obscure,
Looking most deaconly demure,
And there, with one eye on the door,
A “smasher” down your gullet pour;
Then tell the first you meet, perchance,
Your great delight in temperance?
You have n't drunk for years,—not you!
Say water, and it may be true,
For he who is n't very blind
Knows, by your purse, about what kind.
Poor human nature! 'tis a pity
The query 's just, if not so witty.
Among those ancient fishermen;
Not that of which the sun has merit,
I mean drouth of Jamaica spirit.
No dry Maine-law was then in force,
But quite as much observed, of course;
The diff'rence being,—who can doubt it?—
There was less quibbling then about it.
Rule, Temperance! but of thy dominion
The Muse will query one opinion:
Which of the two is better, pray?
To drink the “stuff” in open day,
To clink a glass to others' health,
Or to the good, old Commonwealth,
And own outright to fellow men
You love a noggin, now and then;
Or sneak into some hole obscure,
Looking most deaconly demure,
And there, with one eye on the door,
A “smasher” down your gullet pour;
Then tell the first you meet, perchance,
Your great delight in temperance?
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Say water, and it may be true,
For he who is n't very blind
Knows, by your purse, about what kind.
Poor human nature! 'tis a pity
The query 's just, if not so witty.
Those fishers were a race of men
Whose like we ne'er shall see again.
Creative Wisdom seems to give
Men for the times in which they live.
Born in the days of “hoddin gray”
When Fashion's walks were far away;
Bred in the days when hardest toil
Was needful to subdue the soil;
Their school-house was the broad, green sod;
Experience with her rule and rod
Taught them the lessons Science spurned;
But Science claims not all the learned.—
Strong, brave and forceful; earnest hearted;
With them the rope drew, or 'twas parted;
When unoffended, very clever;
When angered,—see the de'il, d'ye ever?
They loved their day and generation;
They loved the creature, and creation;
They loved life's cheer, they bore its burden,
And all have traveled over Jordan,
And low away at rest were laid
Long while before my pen was made.
Whose like we ne'er shall see again.
Creative Wisdom seems to give
Men for the times in which they live.
Born in the days of “hoddin gray”
When Fashion's walks were far away;
Bred in the days when hardest toil
Was needful to subdue the soil;
Their school-house was the broad, green sod;
Experience with her rule and rod
Taught them the lessons Science spurned;
But Science claims not all the learned.—
Strong, brave and forceful; earnest hearted;
With them the rope drew, or 'twas parted;
When unoffended, very clever;
When angered,—see the de'il, d'ye ever?
They loved their day and generation;
They loved the creature, and creation;
They loved life's cheer, they bore its burden,
And all have traveled over Jordan,
And low away at rest were laid
Long while before my pen was made.
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All in the merry month of May,
Where Turner's pouring waters play,
The scenes of old “Election day,”—
Oft heard-of scenes—crowd fast upon me:
There mystified and mystic Johnny
Was seen with hazle rod in hand,
His stature small, his bearing grand,
Revealing to a gaping crowd
In piping tones of treble loud
Hints of the treasures he had found,
The place, the what, a secret sound;
That all his care was just to heed them,
For reason that he didn't need them.—
Forever poor with all his riches;
Forever plagued by sport of witches
Who filled with various pains his body,
To ease which kept him soaked with toddy;
And fastened tightly round his head
Imaginary bands of lead;
When had he told t'was filled inside,
Few such a fact might have denied.
Where Turner's pouring waters play,
The scenes of old “Election day,”—
Oft heard-of scenes—crowd fast upon me:
There mystified and mystic Johnny
Was seen with hazle rod in hand,
His stature small, his bearing grand,
Revealing to a gaping crowd
In piping tones of treble loud
Hints of the treasures he had found,
The place, the what, a secret sound;
That all his care was just to heed them,
For reason that he didn't need them.—
Forever poor with all his riches;
Forever plagued by sport of witches
Who filled with various pains his body,
To ease which kept him soaked with toddy;
And fastened tightly round his head
Imaginary bands of lead;
When had he told t'was filled inside,
Few such a fact might have denied.
There she who bore a witch's fame;
(The rhyme thereof were truer name;)
Misguided and misguiding creature,
With virtue weak, and strong ill-nature.
Among the crowd she reeled and staggered,
Or with the bottle-drainers swaggered,
Till overcome beside the fence
With aught but sleep of innocence.
(The rhyme thereof were truer name;)
Misguided and misguiding creature,
With virtue weak, and strong ill-nature.
Among the crowd she reeled and staggered,
Or with the bottle-drainers swaggered,
Till overcome beside the fence
With aught but sleep of innocence.
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There, hidden by a noisy ring,
Two wrestlers grappled for a fling:
The one a lithe and nimble fellow,
And pursy one with human tallow.
Now swaying round, their feet displaying,
And now the sudden twitch essaying;
Each looked as if he apprehended
An empire's fate on him depended;
While frequent shots of country wit
Stung this or that, as aimed to hit.
Some on the grand result were betting;
They heard who at arm's-length were sweating,
As wages never made them sweat,
And fiercer strove each for the bet;
The stout man on his strength relying,
The lean one, nimble tripping trying;
The stout man looking flushed and blown,
Unmindful of the buttons gone;—
His waistband loosened by the tripping,
Low “by the stern” was slowly slipping,—
(To use a phrase perhaps I shouldn't,
But so expressive or I wouldn't;
Besides, my theme pertains to water,
That's fundamental proof I ought-er;)
The lean man looking pale and solemn,
Bent like a bow his spinal column;
His feet, whene'er the other twitched,
With funny, sideway motion hitched,
Just like a strutting Bantam when
He shuffles sidelong round a hen.
Two wrestlers grappled for a fling:
The one a lithe and nimble fellow,
And pursy one with human tallow.
Now swaying round, their feet displaying,
And now the sudden twitch essaying;
Each looked as if he apprehended
An empire's fate on him depended;
While frequent shots of country wit
Stung this or that, as aimed to hit.
Some on the grand result were betting;
They heard who at arm's-length were sweating,
As wages never made them sweat,
And fiercer strove each for the bet;
The stout man on his strength relying,
The lean one, nimble tripping trying;
The stout man looking flushed and blown,
Unmindful of the buttons gone;—
His waistband loosened by the tripping,
Low “by the stern” was slowly slipping,—
(To use a phrase perhaps I shouldn't,
But so expressive or I wouldn't;
Besides, my theme pertains to water,
That's fundamental proof I ought-er;)
The lean man looking pale and solemn,
Bent like a bow his spinal column;
His feet, whene'er the other twitched,
With funny, sideway motion hitched,
Just like a strutting Bantam when
He shuffles sidelong round a hen.
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When, lo! at last, when nearly gone,
The patience of each looker-on,
The wrestle in a flurry ended;
Legs, feet, and arms were twirling blended.
Who was prevailing there was doubt,
Till rose at length the boisterous shout
That drowned the roaring waters' tone;
The shout proclaimed the lubber thrown;
While with an air that seemed to say,
“Just tell that to posterity!”
The pallid hero strode away.
The patience of each looker-on,
The wrestle in a flurry ended;
Legs, feet, and arms were twirling blended.
Who was prevailing there was doubt,
Till rose at length the boisterous shout
That drowned the roaring waters' tone;
The shout proclaimed the lubber thrown;
While with an air that seemed to say,
“Just tell that to posterity!”
The pallid hero strode away.
So while these scenes were going on,
The scoops were plied, the nets were drawn.
Swift shot the row-boat from the shore,
As lively played the flashing oar;
And as it darted circling round,
By skillful hands the net was drown'd.
Next came the pulling, long and strong,
Like sailors warping ship along;
The low, but animated cheer,—
(Fishers aye deem the fish will hear;)—
Till landward as the meshes drew,
The prisoned fish appeared to view,
And now grown conscious of their trouble,
Made the fenc'd water boil and bubble.
The scoops were plied, the nets were drawn.
Swift shot the row-boat from the shore,
As lively played the flashing oar;
And as it darted circling round,
By skillful hands the net was drown'd.
Next came the pulling, long and strong,
Like sailors warping ship along;
The low, but animated cheer,—
(Fishers aye deem the fish will hear;)—
Till landward as the meshes drew,
The prisoned fish appeared to view,
And now grown conscious of their trouble,
Made the fenc'd water boil and bubble.
Just so, 'tis said, mankind will let
Themselves be snared in evil net,
And make no effort for exemption
Till in their case there's no redemption.
Next, by the father of all fish!
To have been there you well might wish,
When, for some two-and-seventy pence,
You might have drawn a cart-load thence
Of just the finest shad that ever
Swam this, or any other river.
Themselves be snared in evil net,
And make no effort for exemption
Till in their case there's no redemption.
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To have been there you well might wish,
When, for some two-and-seventy pence,
You might have drawn a cart-load thence
Of just the finest shad that ever
Swam this, or any other river.
Shrouded in spray, our side the flood,
A ragged, rocky island stood;
And still it stands, and stand it may
Till Advent madmen bring THE DAY.
Just off this island,—Jack would say,
“Off the port bow” a little way,—
Fixed in sub-aqueous ledges fast,
The dizzy waters whirling past,
Was seen a rock, since drowned from sight
By the curb'd water's refluent height.
This rock was fisher Burnham's claim;
Floods may not wash away his name,
Tho' rock and master both went under,
The rock out there; he—where? I wonder.
Time's changes have again laid bare
The rock, but there's no fisher there!
A ragged, rocky island stood;
And still it stands, and stand it may
Till Advent madmen bring THE DAY.
Just off this island,—Jack would say,
“Off the port bow” a little way,—
Fixed in sub-aqueous ledges fast,
The dizzy waters whirling past,
Was seen a rock, since drowned from sight
By the curb'd water's refluent height.
This rock was fisher Burnham's claim;
Floods may not wash away his name,
Tho' rock and master both went under,
The rock out there; he—where? I wonder.
Time's changes have again laid bare
The rock, but there's no fisher there!
There Burnham with his hardy few,
A daring, danger-loving crew,
Were wont their long-armed scoops to ply
For the fine salmon springing by;—
Those SALMON! of all fish most precious;
When dished, of flavor most delicious.
Ah, gray-haired dames of other days!
How often have I heard you praise,
As thought restored, those princely fish,
And tell the serving of the dish!
Your language, truthful, apt, and glowing,
As if you told what you were knowing,
So plain before my eyes has placed it,
That I, “by taking thought,” could taste it!
A daring, danger-loving crew,
Were wont their long-armed scoops to ply
For the fine salmon springing by;—
Those SALMON! of all fish most precious;
When dished, of flavor most delicious.
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How often have I heard you praise,
As thought restored, those princely fish,
And tell the serving of the dish!
Your language, truthful, apt, and glowing,
As if you told what you were knowing,
So plain before my eyes has placed it,
That I, “by taking thought,” could taste it!
But that grim king whom all men fear,
Whose court is everywhere, was here:
A treacherous slip; a sudden shock
While standing on the slippery rock;
The snapping of an oar in twain;
Too much of extrait de la grain,
Would “turn the tables” and the dishes,
And give the fisher to the fishes.
A few, whom nothing could appall,
Braved the wild terrors of the fall:
'Twas “old Elisha,” going o'er,—
A namesake of the seer of yore,
But for a “mantle” had, I'm thinking,
A wretched habit of hard drinking—
Who shouted “Gallows! claim your right!”
Just as he vanished down the height;
And altho' drown'd awhile from view
Where the foam broke and spoon-drift flew,
By some strange chance the whirls he passed,
And came out safe below at last,
Better confirmed in local fame
Than was the gallows of its claim.
Whose court is everywhere, was here:
A treacherous slip; a sudden shock
While standing on the slippery rock;
The snapping of an oar in twain;
Too much of extrait de la grain,
Would “turn the tables” and the dishes,
And give the fisher to the fishes.
A few, whom nothing could appall,
Braved the wild terrors of the fall:
'Twas “old Elisha,” going o'er,—
A namesake of the seer of yore,
But for a “mantle” had, I'm thinking,
A wretched habit of hard drinking—
Who shouted “Gallows! claim your right!”
Just as he vanished down the height;
And altho' drown'd awhile from view
Where the foam broke and spoon-drift flew,
By some strange chance the whirls he passed,
And came out safe below at last,
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Than was the gallows of its claim.
And there was one, a fisher bold,
Of whom an “ower true tale” is told,
How vengeful anger 'gainst a foe
Led both where none would care to go.
“Lord! what is man” when anger makes him
Reckless, and reason cool forsakes him?
Spirits of Wine, of Love, of Hate,—
How all alike intoxicate,
And prompt to deeds of daring high
The calm, cold-blooded never try!
Of whom an “ower true tale” is told,
How vengeful anger 'gainst a foe
Led both where none would care to go.
“Lord! what is man” when anger makes him
Reckless, and reason cool forsakes him?
Spirits of Wine, of Love, of Hate,—
How all alike intoxicate,
And prompt to deeds of daring high
The calm, cold-blooded never try!
One day this fisher was afloat
With him he hated, in a boat,—
A neighbor who had done him wrong,
And he had harbored vengeance long.
The neighbor rowed, the other steered,
When sudden toward the fall they sheered.
The rower, noticing the veering,
Inquired in terror, “Whither steering?”
“Straight o'er the fall with you to hell,
Unless you'll crave my pardon well!
Down on your knees!—a moment lost
And God have mercy on your ghost!”
The frighted man forgiveness craved
At their last moment to be saved!
Their course was changed, the oars were plied;
Swift drew th' accelerating tide;
Long was the struggle, and appalling,
Between man's strength and water falling;
The victor and the vanquished, too,
Both did the utmost they could do;
The ashen blades made furious strife,—
O, it was rowing for dear life!
The boat, in spite of all their rowing,
Kept slowly, surely, downward going;
Then hung, as if 'twere anchored fast;
Then, inch—by—inch, it crawled at last
Slow upward out of danger's path.
Thankful was one; appeased one's wrath;
And when anon they reached the shore,
They joined hands, friends forever more.
With him he hated, in a boat,—
A neighbor who had done him wrong,
And he had harbored vengeance long.
The neighbor rowed, the other steered,
When sudden toward the fall they sheered.
The rower, noticing the veering,
Inquired in terror, “Whither steering?”
“Straight o'er the fall with you to hell,
Unless you'll crave my pardon well!
Down on your knees!—a moment lost
And God have mercy on your ghost!”
The frighted man forgiveness craved
At their last moment to be saved!
Their course was changed, the oars were plied;
Swift drew th' accelerating tide;
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Between man's strength and water falling;
The victor and the vanquished, too,
Both did the utmost they could do;
The ashen blades made furious strife,—
O, it was rowing for dear life!
The boat, in spite of all their rowing,
Kept slowly, surely, downward going;
Then hung, as if 'twere anchored fast;
Then, inch—by—inch, it crawled at last
Slow upward out of danger's path.
Thankful was one; appeased one's wrath;
And when anon they reached the shore,
They joined hands, friends forever more.
Shall I digress and tell the tale
Of Lucy, “Lily of the Vale,”
And Luman, who upon the river
For manly feats a match had never?
Then ye who read my running diction,
May call it truth veneered with fiction.
Of Lucy, “Lily of the Vale,”
And Luman, who upon the river
For manly feats a match had never?
Then ye who read my running diction,
May call it truth veneered with fiction.
Lucy was lovely, modest, mild;
Luman was headstrong, brave, and wild.
Lucy was sober-minded, steady;
Luman was ever “rough and ready;”
But by that charm, that curious feature,
You'll often see in human nature,
Which, so to speak, in bonds of love
Unites the eagle with the dove,—
The two did in each other see
Perfection of humanity;
And bound in Hymen's silken tether
Essayed the march of life together.
Luman was headstrong, brave, and wild.
Lucy was sober-minded, steady;
Luman was ever “rough and ready;”
But by that charm, that curious feature,
You'll often see in human nature,
Which, so to speak, in bonds of love
Unites the eagle with the dove,—
17
Perfection of humanity;
And bound in Hymen's silken tether
Essayed the march of life together.
There's many a march that's short and pleasant,
Both to the soldier and the peasant,
That ends in fierce and sudden strife
Or quick extinguishment of life.
In war, in peace, in arms, at rest,
Who knows if he be doomed, or blest?
Both to the soldier and the peasant,
That ends in fierce and sudden strife
Or quick extinguishment of life.
In war, in peace, in arms, at rest,
Who knows if he be doomed, or blest?
A twelve-month passed in happiness;
Twelve fleeting moons of wedded bliss.
Their cottage nigh the water stood;
Before it ran the gleaming flood;
Behind it, pines, dark-green and high,
Wrought “conic sections” on the sky.
A morning-glory at the door
Was trained to climb the clapboards o'er;
Beside it spread a garden neat
Where quaint, old-fashioned pansies sweet
Showed pretty Lucy's willing care,
And painted peaceful gladness there.
Here Luman ploughed his farm and planted;
Or lent a helping hand when wanted
In any deed requiring skill,
A strong arm, and a ready will;
And, well acquainted with the flood,
Oft at the helm as pilot stood,
And steered the batteaux of the stranger
Through channels wild and blind with danger.
Each social scene, each husking-bee,
The first and foremost aye was he;
At raisings, readiest and spryest,
Could lift the most, and climb the highest;
And though among his fellows, rude,
To Lucy ever kind and good.
The charm that first to her did win him,
Sufficed to tame the wildness in him.
Twelve fleeting moons of wedded bliss.
Their cottage nigh the water stood;
Before it ran the gleaming flood;
Behind it, pines, dark-green and high,
Wrought “conic sections” on the sky.
A morning-glory at the door
Was trained to climb the clapboards o'er;
Beside it spread a garden neat
Where quaint, old-fashioned pansies sweet
Showed pretty Lucy's willing care,
And painted peaceful gladness there.
Here Luman ploughed his farm and planted;
Or lent a helping hand when wanted
In any deed requiring skill,
A strong arm, and a ready will;
And, well acquainted with the flood,
Oft at the helm as pilot stood,
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Through channels wild and blind with danger.
Each social scene, each husking-bee,
The first and foremost aye was he;
At raisings, readiest and spryest,
Could lift the most, and climb the highest;
And though among his fellows, rude,
To Lucy ever kind and good.
The charm that first to her did win him,
Sufficed to tame the wildness in him.
Such were the twain, and such their home.
One may to the conclusion come,
If e'er were happy, man and woman,
They were our Lucy and her Luman.
One may to the conclusion come,
If e'er were happy, man and woman,
They were our Lucy and her Luman.
'Twas early dawn, the last of May;
The birds were waking up the day;
The robin poured his dulcet strain,
The blue-bird warbled back again,
While chiming in were heard to clink
The key notes of the bob-o-link;
And pearls hung thick on every spray,—
Night's parting offering to the day.
When Lucy, starting with affright,
Waked from her visions of the night;
Her mind full of foreboding fears;
Her wonted smile displaced by tears.
Her vision seemed a solemn warning,
And gloomed the brightness of the morning.
The birds were waking up the day;
The robin poured his dulcet strain,
The blue-bird warbled back again,
While chiming in were heard to clink
The key notes of the bob-o-link;
And pearls hung thick on every spray,—
Night's parting offering to the day.
When Lucy, starting with affright,
Waked from her visions of the night;
Her mind full of foreboding fears;
Her wonted smile displaced by tears.
Her vision seemed a solemn warning,
And gloomed the brightness of the morning.
19
“O, Luman! do not fish to-day!
Stay from yon dismal falls away!
Their sound my spirit fills with gloom,
Like warning voices from the tomb.
I dreamed that on the shore I stood,
And saw you drowning in the flood;
Nor was it wholly like a dream,
So strangely real did it seem.
'T was death, all painfully exact!
May God in mercy spare the fact!”
Poor Luman heard, but heeded not;
But laughing, left his pleasant cot,
With promise early to return,
That she to disregard might learn
Such dreams and superstitious fears;—
But Lucy smiled adieu through tears.
Stay from yon dismal falls away!
Their sound my spirit fills with gloom,
Like warning voices from the tomb.
I dreamed that on the shore I stood,
And saw you drowning in the flood;
Nor was it wholly like a dream,
So strangely real did it seem.
'T was death, all painfully exact!
May God in mercy spare the fact!”
Poor Luman heard, but heeded not;
But laughing, left his pleasant cot,
With promise early to return,
That she to disregard might learn
Such dreams and superstitious fears;—
But Lucy smiled adieu through tears.
The day wore on; the day declined.
Lucy was oft in Luman's mind,
And to his comrades on the stream
Made frequent mention of her dream;
While they as oft remarked a shade
Of sadness o'er his features played,—
That sort of harbinger ideal,
Foreshadow of the gloomy real.
Lucy was oft in Luman's mind,
And to his comrades on the stream
Made frequent mention of her dream;
While they as oft remarked a shade
Of sadness o'er his features played,—
That sort of harbinger ideal,
Foreshadow of the gloomy real.
“See, boys! there winks the sleepy sun!
Just one throw more, and I have done.
Lucy is watching at the door,
Anxious to hear my homeward oar;—
Now for a salmon for a crowner,
A real eight-and-twenty pounder!”
Just one throw more, and I have done.
Lucy is watching at the door,
Anxious to hear my homeward oar;—
20
A real eight-and-twenty pounder!”
He spoke; and through the channel swift
Swept the long scoop, and tugged to lift.
Its weight snapped short the treacherous wood,
And plunged him headlong in the flood.
Then rose a cry of wild despair
From those who could not aid him there!
Swept in an instant from the rock,
He rose, and rallying from the shock,
Struck boldly out for life's dear sake,
And swam, the island point to make.
O, 't was an awful sight to see
The brave heart struggling manfully!
The boldest fisher held his breath
Those moments short 'twixt life and death;
And each with fixed, unblinking eye,
Looked on to see him live, or—die.
Alas! that it should prove the last!
The maddened waters bore him past
The island point, and down the steep,
With them he took the wildering leap;
The whirls, more dreadful, caught their prey,
And swept him round in dizzy play;
Till as the vortex wild he neared,
Its force upright the victim reared,
And he, all conscious to the last,
Despite the terrors closing fast,
Waved with his hand a sad adieu,
And sank the hissing helix through!
Swept the long scoop, and tugged to lift.
Its weight snapped short the treacherous wood,
And plunged him headlong in the flood.
Then rose a cry of wild despair
From those who could not aid him there!
Swept in an instant from the rock,
He rose, and rallying from the shock,
Struck boldly out for life's dear sake,
And swam, the island point to make.
O, 't was an awful sight to see
The brave heart struggling manfully!
The boldest fisher held his breath
Those moments short 'twixt life and death;
And each with fixed, unblinking eye,
Looked on to see him live, or—die.
Alas! that it should prove the last!
The maddened waters bore him past
The island point, and down the steep,
With them he took the wildering leap;
The whirls, more dreadful, caught their prey,
And swept him round in dizzy play;
Till as the vortex wild he neared,
Its force upright the victim reared,
And he, all conscious to the last,
Despite the terrors closing fast,
21
And sank the hissing helix through!
On shore was running to and fro;
The fishers' boats put off below,
And to the middle hour of night
Their torches gleamed with lurid light;
Now here, now there, they, seeking, steered;
But Luman never more appeared.
The fishers' boats put off below,
And to the middle hour of night
Their torches gleamed with lurid light;
Now here, now there, they, seeking, steered;
But Luman never more appeared.
I may not, cannot paint her grief
Whose unfeigned part was mourner chief;
But with a song will end the tale,
And to the dwellers in the Vale
Commend the air called “Lily Dale.”
Whose unfeigned part was mourner chief;
But with a song will end the tale,
And to the dwellers in the Vale
Commend the air called “Lily Dale.”
THE SONG.
I.
'Twas the last of May, and the bright spring dayWas wearing into June,
And the spray waved light with its blossoms bright,
And the birds were all in tune.
O, Lucy! poor Lucy! “Lily of the Vale!”
What a pity it should be
Such a mournful day to thee!
For thy fate shall the sad harp wail.
22
II.
By the pleasant shore, never, nevermoreCould joy for thee be found,
For its grave was made where the torrent played
The death song of the drowned.
O, Lucy! poor Lucy! thy grief who'll chide?
For thy bosom grew as cold
As the river-flood that roll'd
To the deep, with thy love and thy pride.
III.
Oft at stilly night, when the stars were brightAnd the moon had sunk away,
Could the boatman hear music soft and clear,
And wild as a banshee's lay.
But 'twas Lucy! poor Lucy! life's light had fled;
By the shore she used to stray,
And the melancholy lay
Was her plaintive lament for the dead.
IV.
Ere the shad-trees gay bloomed again in May,Poor Lucy passed the test;
And they dug her grave where the pine trees wave
And whisper o'er her rest.
O, Lucy! poor Lucy! hopeful we feel
That you dried the bitter tear
Of your tribulation here
In the beautiful “land o' the leal.”
23
“Change” is the word we write on all:
And change is written at the Fall;
For man with mighty beams of wood
Has tamed old Turner's tumbling flood;
And where was once a furious race
Of torrents down a rocky place,
Where madness fretted into suds
The rushing, roaring, raving floods,
The sheet unbroken now descends,—
The mill-dam with the torrent blends.
No more those dreadful whirls below,
Where once 'twas death for man to go;
Where sticks which one might rightly call
Masts for the stately “Admiral,”
Were turned and withed about like willows,
Till sucked beneath the twisting billows.
And change is written at the Fall;
For man with mighty beams of wood
Has tamed old Turner's tumbling flood;
And where was once a furious race
Of torrents down a rocky place,
Where madness fretted into suds
The rushing, roaring, raving floods,
The sheet unbroken now descends,—
The mill-dam with the torrent blends.
No more those dreadful whirls below,
Where once 'twas death for man to go;
Where sticks which one might rightly call
Masts for the stately “Admiral,”
Were turned and withed about like willows,
Till sucked beneath the twisting billows.
The fisher's fire is out ashore;
The bellying seine is drawn no more;
No more appears, when hauled to land,
The silver winrow on the sand;
No more at drowning death they mock
On Burnham's danger-girted rock,
Where once the salmon fine were found
That kicked the beam at thirty pound;
No more the merry May-days bring
The jolly old-time gathering;
For all is changed; old scenes are past,
And fading from man's memory fast.
Since Art and Commerce rule our river,
Gone are our finny stores forever;
Untrammel'd Nature brings no more
This bounty to our storied shore.
In vain ye look, ye watchful wishers!
Gone, and for aye, are fish and fishers!
The bellying seine is drawn no more;
No more appears, when hauled to land,
The silver winrow on the sand;
No more at drowning death they mock
On Burnham's danger-girted rock,
Where once the salmon fine were found
That kicked the beam at thirty pound;
No more the merry May-days bring
The jolly old-time gathering;
For all is changed; old scenes are past,
And fading from man's memory fast.
24
Gone are our finny stores forever;
Untrammel'd Nature brings no more
This bounty to our storied shore.
In vain ye look, ye watchful wishers!
Gone, and for aye, are fish and fishers!
FINIS.
| The Shad-Fishers | |