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.