 | Songs of Democracy |  |
THE FISHERMEN.
Three fishermen sat by the side
Of the many-toned popular stream,
That rolled with its heavy-paced tide
In the shade of its own dark dream.
Of the many-toned popular stream,
That rolled with its heavy-paced tide
In the shade of its own dark dream.
Now sullen and quiet and deep,—
Now fretful, and foaming, and wild;
Now calm as a Titan asleep,
And now like a petulant child.
Now fretful, and foaming, and wild;
Now calm as a Titan asleep,
And now like a petulant child.
First, sat there the fisher of France,
And he smiled as the waters came,
For he kindled their light with a glance,
At the bait of a popular name.
And he smiled as the waters came,
For he kindled their light with a glance,
At the bait of a popular name.
Next, the fisher of Russia was there,
Fishing for German States,
And, throwing his lines with care,
He made his own daughters the baits.
Fishing for German States,
And, throwing his lines with care,
He made his own daughters the baits.
Next, the Austrian fisher-boy set
His snares in the broad river's way,—
But, so widely he stretched his net,
It half broke with the weight of his prey.
His snares in the broad river's way,—
But, so widely he stretched his net,
It half broke with the weight of his prey.
And next, on an island I saw
Many fishermen catching with glee,
At the baits of “peace” “freedom” and “law,”
Slave-fish, while they christened them “free.”
Many fishermen catching with glee,
At the baits of “peace” “freedom” and “law,”
Slave-fish, while they christened them “free.”
And still, as they hooked the prize
They cried with a keen delight,
And held up the spoil to their eyes:
“The gudgeon! they bite! they bite!”
They cried with a keen delight,
And held up the spoil to their eyes:
“The gudgeon! they bite! they bite!”
But the hooks with time grow dull,
And the lines grow weak-with age,
And the thaw makes the rivers full,
And the wind makes the waters rage;
And the lines grow weak-with age,
And the thaw makes the rivers full,
And the wind makes the waters rage;
And spoilt is the fishermens' trade,
And the zest of their bait is past,
And those, on the fish who preyed,
Are the prey of the fish at last.
And the zest of their bait is past,
And those, on the fish who preyed,
Are the prey of the fish at last.
| Songs of Democracy | |