We were all so much touched and excited By a subject so direly sublime, That the rules of politeness were slighted, And we all of us talked at a time; And in tones, which each moment grew louder, Told how we should dress for the show, And where we should fasten the powder, And if we should bellow or no. Thus from subject to subject we ran, And the journey pass'd pleasantly o'er, Till at last Dr. Humdrum began: From that time I remember no more. At Ware he commenced his prelection, In the dullest of clerical drones: And when next I regained recollection We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. (1802-1839.) LXIII. THE RED FISHERMAN; OR, THE DEVIL'S DECOY. Published in Knight's _Annual_. The Abbot arose, and closed his book, And donned his sandal shoon, And wandered forth alone, to look Upon the summer moon: A starlight sky was o'er his head, A quiet breeze around; And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed And the waves a soothing sound: It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught But love and calm delight; Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought On his wrinkled brow that night. He gazed on the river that gurgled by, But he thought not of the reeds He clasped his gilded rosary, But he did not tell the beads; If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke The Spirit that dwelleth there; If he opened his lips, the words they spoke Had never the tone of prayer. A pious priest might the Abbot seem, He had swayed the crozier well; But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, The Abbot were loth to tell.