AN OLD FISH POND.
Green growths of mosses drop and bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.
Slow efts about the edges sleep;
Swift-darting water-flies
Shoot on the surface; down the deep
Fast-following bubbles rise.
Look down. What groves that scarcely sway!
What "wood obscure," profound!
What jungle!—where some beast of prey
Might choose his vantage-ground!
Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?—
Who knows what tale? Belike,
Those "antres vast" and shadows hide
Some patriarchal Pike;—
Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed,
To whom the sky, the earth,
Have but for aim to look on awed
And see him wax in girth;—
Hard ruler there by right of might;
An ageless Autocrat,
Whose "good old rule" is "Appetite,
And subjects fresh and fat;"—
While they—poor souls!—in wan despair
Still watch for signs in him;
And dying, hand from heir to heir
The day undawned and dim,
When the pond's terror too must go;
Or creeping in by stealth,
Some bolder brood, with common blow,
Shall found a Commonwealth.
Or say,—perchance the liker this!—
That these themselves are gone;
That Amurath in minimis,—
Still hungry,—lingers on,
With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw
Revolving sullen things,
But most the blind unequal law
That rules the food of Kings;—
The blot that makes the cosmic All
A mere time-honoured cheat;—
That bids the Great to eat the Small,
Yet lack the Small to eat!
Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.