236 EPITAPHS ON ANGLERS. 



THE FISHER'S GRAVE. 



Long has wept the silver tide, 



Stealing on its pebbly shore, 

 Since it bath'd his wherry's side, 



Dashing to the feather' d oar. 



'Twas at night, and homeward sped 



The fisher to his hut afar ; 

 The cold moon shone above his head, 



Brightly gleam' d each twinkling star. 



He thought upon his cottage fire, 

 With rosy children circled round, 



And sweet the dreams those thoughts inspire, 

 Dreams with peace and pleasure crown' d. 



And as he row'd his boat along, 



Cheerily his voice arose ; 

 The woods re-echo'd to his song, 



And sigh'd at each returning close. 



The boat glides on conceal' d and dark, 

 Lurks beneath the sunken rock ; 



Whirls around the fragile bark 

 It shivers with the sunken shock ! 



The dying cry, the plunge was heard, 

 The peasants gather' d on the shore ; 



And unavailing pray'rs preferr'd, 

 For him who can awake no more. 



In vain beside her cottage fire, 



His widow' d partner mourns his stay ; 



His children ask their absent sire, 

 Alas ! he comes not with the day ! 



