The Old Fisherman

While wandering up the river-side alone To view the landscape of my new-found home, Away from cities and the haunts of men Where I midst nature's scenes can quietly roam, I came upon a fisher's lonely hut Ensconced within a winding of the stream, And in a boat the fisherman himself; While on his sail the sunlight sent a gleam. Across the river stands a stately mountain Which wandering artists oft have tried to paint, But none could seize the subtle blend of colours— Of purple blues and rose-dawn flushes faint. Alas! the fisherman through summers many, Has gazed upon the glory of this scene, And yet his mind's unwakened to its beauty, His hand unskilled to limn its tints and sheen. And my hand, too, alas! has lost its cunning And cannot serve my brain as in my youth, So men will lose another glorious picture Of Nature with her beauty and her truth.