But, wearied now, the rain gives o'er the fight, Though thundering clouds have not expended quite Their rumbling yet; and oft the forkèd light Illumes the stream, which to the friar shows How high the waters o'er its margin flows. It is supper-time now, and a fish growing bold, On the bait as it neared him caught suddenly hold. How the fisherman grins as the cord outward rolled, Though he shivers, and all his teeth chatter with cold. "How it runs! how it runs! like an arrow it flies! I am certain," he said; "'tis a fish of great size. For my patience, though late, I shall still gain a prize. Sure, I think, it down straight Must have swallowed the bait; For, of line but a few yards are left. I must strike, or I fear They will too, disappear, And he then may walk off with his theft." 'Twas a capital stroke, But his top-joint he broke, So he seizes the line with his hand. And then works it about, Till he's tired quite out, For the fish seems averse to the land. "Patience, patience!" he said, Talking inside his head; "Have you not tried for hours, and have yet taken naught? Then be patient and wait, Though it p'rhaps may be late, Still the fish at the end of your line is half caught." An hour passed, and every gleam of light Flies, with the sun afraid of gloomy night. Yet still our friend is in the selfsame plight, The fish is lively, though he's wearied quite. And shakes, not now with cold alone, but fright, For every tree he fancies is a sprite. His sport, I fear, is not unmix'd delight. He once or twice had drawn the line up tight, And thought by strength to drag the fish out right, But feared that, p'rhaps, it like the other might Escape; so slackening, granted a respite To Jack, who, rushing forth with new delight, Seemed much astonished at this act polite. Another hour! and lively as before The pike appears; while Peter, wearied sore, With itching fingers longs his fate to try, Yet dares not stand the hazard of the die. But with a dash the fish the die has cast, For through his hand the slippery line ran fast; And, tangling 'mongst his fingers, drew him close The rapid stream; which o'er its banks had rose, A slip, a plunge, headforemost in the tide He dived; then rising--vainly struggling--tried To reach the bank; but not a ray of light Appeared to guide; so deeper in his fright He sank; while waves fast closing o'er his head, In murmurings whispered, that all hope had fled. Then down the stream, still powerful and strong, The fish his breathless body drags along. * * * * * _MORAL._