The Fisherman

THE waters rush, the waters roll; a fisherman sits angling by;
He gazes o'er their glancing floor with sleepy brow and listless eye;
And while he looks, and while he lolls, the flood is moved as by a storm,
And slowly from its heaving depths ascends a humid woman's form.

She sings, she speaks, — " Why lure, why wile, with human craft and human snare,
My little ones, my helpless brood, to perish in this fiery air?
Ah! couldst thou guess the dreamy bliss we feel below the purple sea,
Thou wouldst forsake the earth and all, to dwell beneath with them and me.

"The moon, the sun, their travel done, come down to sleep in Ocean's caves;
They reascend their glorious thrones, with doubled beauty from the waves.
Ah! sure the blue ethereal dew, the shining heaven these waters shew,
Nay, even thine own reflected face must draw thee, win thee down below."

The waters rush, the waters roll; about his naked feet they move;
An aching longing fills his soul, as when we look on her we love.
She sings to him, she speaks to him: alas! he feels that all is o'er,
She drags him down; his senses swim; the fisherman is seen no more!