Grew damp beneath his tread;
  And nearer he came, and still more near,
    To a pool, in whose recess
  The water had slept for many a year,
    Unchanged and motionless;
  From the river stream it spread away
    The space of half a rood;
  The surface had the hue of clay
    And the scent of human blood;
  The trees and the herbs that round it grew
    Were venomous and foul,
  And the birds that through the bushes flew
    Were the vulture and the owl;
  The water was as dark and rank
    As ever a Company pumped,
  And the perch that was netted and laid on the bank
    Grew rotten while it jumped;
  And bold was he who thither came
    At midnight, man or boy,
  For the place was cursed with an evil name,
    And that name was “The Devil’s Decoy”!

  The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,
  And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree: 
  When suddenly rose a dismal tone,—­
  Was it a song, or was it a moan?—­
          “O ho!  O ho! 
          Above,—­below,—­
  Lightly and brightly they glide and go! 
  The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
  The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
  Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
  Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!”—­
  In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
  He looked to the left and he looked to the right;
  And what was the vision close before him
  That flung such a sudden stupor o’er him? 
  ’Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
    And the life-blood colder run: 
  The startled Priest struck both his thigh,
    And the abbey clock struck one!

  All alone, by the side of the pool,
  A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
  Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
  And putting in order his reel and rod;
  Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
  And a high red cap on his head he bore;
  His arms and his legs were long and bare;
  And two or three locks of long red hair
  Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
  Like a tattered flag o’er a splitting wreck. 
  It might be time, or it might be trouble,
  Had bent that stout back nearly double,
  Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
  That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
  And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin,
  Till it hardly covered the bones within. 
  The line the Abbot saw him throw
  Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago,
  And the hands that worked his foreign vest
  Long ages ago had gone to their rest: 
  You would have sworn, as you looked on them,
  He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

  There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
  As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
  Minnow or gentle, worm or fly,—­
  It seemed not such to the Abbot’s eye;
  Gaily it glittered with jewel and jem,
  And its shape was the shape of a diadem. 
  It was fastened a gleaming hook about
  By a chain within and a chain without;
  The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
  And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!