Yet think not Earth is blind to human
woes—
Man has more friends and helpers than
he knows;
And when a patient people are oppressed,
The land that bore them feels it in her
breast.
Spirits of field and flood, of heath and
hill,
Are grieved and angry at the spreading
ill;
The trees complain together in the night,
Voices of wrath are heard along the height,
And secret vows are sworn, by stream and
strand,
To bring the tyrant low and free the land.
But little recked the pampered King of
these;
He heard no voice but such as praise and
please.
Flattered and fooled, victor in every
sport,
One day he wandered idly with his court
Beside the river, seeking to devise
New ways to show his skill to wondering
eyes.
There in the stream a patient angler stood,
And cast his line across the rippling
flood.
His silver spoil lay near him on the green:
“Such fish,” the courtiers
cried, “were never seen!
Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard
shaft—
This man must be the master of his craft!”
“An easy art!” the jealous
King replied:
“Myself could learn it better, if
I tried,
And catch a hundred larger fish a week—
Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow?
Speak!”
The angler turned, came near, and bent
his knee:
“’Tis not for kings to strive
with such as me;
Yet if the King commands it, I obey.
But one condition of the strife I pray:
The fisherman who brings the least to
land
Shall do whate’er the other may
command.”
Loud laughed the King: “A foolish
fisher thou!
For I shall win, and rule thee then as
now.”
Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate
And slow, King Martin left the helm of
State,
While to the novel game with eager zest
He all his time and all his powers addressed.
Sure such a sight was never seen before!
In robe and crown the monarch trod the
shore;
His golden hooks were decked with feathers
fine,
His jewelled reel ran out a silken line.
With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal
stream;
Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam;
Careless of kings, they eyed with calm
disdain
The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain.
On Friday, when the week was almost spent,
He scanned his empty creel with discontent,
Called for a net, and cast it far and
wide,
And drew—a thousand minnows
from the tide!
Then came the angler to conclude the match,
And at the monarch’s feet spread
out his catch—
A hundred salmon, greater than before.
“I win!” he cried: “the
King must pay the score.”
Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down:
“Rather than lose this game I’d
lose my crown!”
“Nay, thou hast lost them both,”
the angler said;
And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed
Around his form; he dropped his garments