Jane Wilde

27 December 1821 – 3 February 1896

The Fisherman

The water rushes—the water foams
A fisherman sat on the bank,
And calmly gazed on his flowing line,
As it down in the deep wave sank,
The water rushes—the water foams
The bright waves part asunder,
And with wondering eyes he sees arise
A nymph from the caverns under.

She sprang to him—she sang to him
Ah! wherefore dost thou tempt
With thy deadly food, my bright‐scaled brood
From out their crystal element?
Could’st thou but know our joy below,
Thou would’st leave the harsh, cold land,
And dwell in our caves ’neath the glittering waves,
As lord of our sparkling band.

See you not now the bright sun bow
To gaze on his form here;
And the pale moon’s face wears a softer grace
In the depths of our silver sphere.
See the fleecy shroud of the azure cloud
In the heaven beneath the sea;
And look at thine eyes, what a glory lies
In their lustre. Come, look with me.

The water rushes—the water foams
The cool wave kiss’d his feet.
The maiden’s eyes were like azure skies,
And her voice was low and sweet.

She sung to him—she clung to him
O’er the glittering stream they lean;
Half drew she him, half sunk he in,
And never more was seen.
344 Total read