Between two worlds life hovers like a star, Some people would impose now with
Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's
authority,
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle;
Men whose historical superiority
Is always greatest at a miracle.
But Saint Augustine has the great priority,
Who bids all men believe the impossible,
Because 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble,
quibble, he
Quiets at once with "quia impossibile."
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the
Of empires heave but
And the pale smile of Beauties in the grave, The charms of other days, in starlight gleams
Of amatory egotism the Tuism,
Which further to explain would be a truism. Glimmer on high; their buried locks still
It was no mouse; but lo! a monk, array'd In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade,
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; His garments only a slight murmur made;
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitchHe moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche,
But slowly; and as he passed Juan by, Glanced, withont pausing, on him a bright
All there was as he left it: still his taper
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,
Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse
Their office; he took up an old newspaper;
The paper was right easy to peruse;
He read an article the King attacking,
And a long eulogy of "Patent Blacking."
But seeing him all cold and silent still,
And every body wondering more or less,
Fair Adeline inquired, “If he were ill?”
He started, and said, "Yes no rather- yes."
The family-physician had great skill,
And, being present, now began to express
This savour'd of this world; but his hand His readiness to feel his pulse and tell
He shut his boor, and after having read
The cause, but Juan said, “He was quite well."
"Quite well; yes; no." These answers were "Jest!" quoth Milor, "Why, Adeline, yon
And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both,
However they might savour of delirious;
Something like illness of a sudden growth
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means
serious.
But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth
To state the case, it might be ta'en for
granted
It was not the physician that he wanted.
Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his
chocolate,
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd,
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,
At which he marvell'd, since it had not
rain'd;
Then ask'd her Grace what news were of
the Duke of late?
Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather
pain'd
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.
Then Henry turn'd to Juan and address'd
A few words of condolence on his state:
"You look," quoth he, "as if you had had
your rest
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late."
"What Friar?" said Juan; and he did his best
To put the question with an air sedate,
Or careless; but the effort was not valid
To hinder him from growing still more
pallid.
“Oh! have you never heard of the Black
Friar?
TheSpirit of these walls?"—"In truth not I.”
"Why Fame-but Fame you know's some-
times a liar—
Tells an odd story, of which by the bye:
Whether with time the Spectre has grown
shyer,
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye For such sights, though the tale is half believed,
The Friar of late has not been oft perceived.
Though he came in his might, with King
Henry's right,
To turn church-lands to lay,
With sword in hand, and torch to light
Their walls, if they said nay,
" said A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd,
And he did not seem form'd of clay,
For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen
in the church,
Though he is not seen by day.
The last time was
" "I pray,
Adeline-
(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's
brow,
And from its context thought she could
divine
Connections stronger than he chose to avow
With this same legend),—“if you but design
To jest, you'll choose some other theme just
And whether for good, or whether for ill,
It is not mine to say:
But still to the house of Amundeville
He abideth night and day.
Because the present tale has oft been told,
And is not much improved by growing old." | By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said,
He flits on the bridal eve;
As did the Cynic on some like occasion; And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death, Deeming the Sage would be much mortified,
He comes-but not to grieve.
When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn,
And when aught is to befal
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine
He walks from hall to hall.
His form you may trace, but not his face,
'Tis shadow'd by his cowl;
But his eyes may be seen from the folds
between,
And they seem of a parted soul.
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, For a spoil'd carpet-but the "Attic Bee" Was much consoled by his own repartee.
Thus Adeline would throw into the shade
(By doing easily whene'er she chose,
What dilettanti do with vast parade),
Their sort of half-profession: for it grows
To something like this when too oft dis-
play'd,
And that it is so, every body knows,
Who have heard Miss That or This, or
Lady T'other,
But beware! beware! of the Black Friar, Show off to please their company or mother.
He still retains his sway,
For he is yet the church's heir
Whoever may be the lay.
Amundeville is lord by day,
But the monk is lord by night.
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal To question that friar's right.
Say nought to him as he walks the hall,
And he'll say nought to you;
He sweeps along in his dusky pall,
As o'er the grass the dew.
Then Grammercy! for the Black Friar;
Heaven sain him! fair or foul,
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer,
Let ours be for his soul.
Oh! the long evenings of duets and trios!
The admirations and the speculations;
The " Mamma Mia's!" and the "Amor
Mio's!"
The "Tanti palpiti's" on such occasions:
The "Lasciami's," and quavering “Addio's!”
Amongst our own most musical of nations;
With Tn mi chamas's" from Portingale,
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.
In Babylon's bravuras-as the home
Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Grey High-
lands,
That brings Lochaber back to eyes that
O'er far Atlantic continents or islands,
The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling The calentures of music which o'ercome
Died from the touch that kindled them to
All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands, No more to be beheld but in such visions,— And the pause follow'd, which, when song Was Adeline well versed, as compositions.
|