Thomas Buchanan Read Poems

BUT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand,
Swinging his rod with skilful hand;
The fly at the end of his gossamer line
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Up from the South, at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
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From a beautiful lake in the mountain
Two rivulets came down,
With a rustle and flutter like ribbons of blue
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The road was lone; the grass was dank
With night-dews on the briery hank
Whereon a weary reaper bank.
His garb was old, —his visage tanned;
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Out of the white, beleaguering lines,
Passing the pickets, beyond the pines,
The herald March comes blustering down,
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I heard from out the dreary realms of sorrow
The various tongues of Woe:
One said -- 'Is there a hope in the to-morrow?'
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The maid who binds her warrior's sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
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My soul to-day
Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat,
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We sat and watched the hearth-fire blaze,
My friend and I together;
The crickets sang of harvest-days,
The wood of summer weather.
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Within a wood, one summer's day,
And in a hollow, ancient trunk,
I shut me from the world away,
To live as lives a hermit monk.
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