Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

1.

Beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
Who sitteth by Norman stone,

For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
And his mass of the days that are gone.
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman Church his prey,

And expell'd the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away.

2

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;

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.

3.

And whether for good, or whether for ill,

It is not mine to say;

But still with the house of Amundeville

He abideth night and day.

By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said,
He flits on the bridal eve;

And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death
He comes-but not to grieve.

4.

When an heir is born, he's heard to mourn,

And when aught is to befall

That ancient line, in the pale moonshine

He walks from hall to hall. (1)

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.

5.

But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,

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.

6.

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.

(1) ["Of the leading superstitions, one of the most beautiful is the Irish fiction, which assigns to certain families of ancient descent and distinguished rank, the privilege of a Banshie, whose office it is to appear, seemingly mourning, while she announces the approaching death of some one o the destined race. The subject has been lately, and beautifully, investigated by Mr. Crofton Croker, in his Fairy Legends."-SIR W. SCOTT,

XLI.

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound;
And the pause follow'd, which when song expires
Pervades a moment those who listen round;
And then of course the circle much admires,
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound,
The tones, the feeling, and the execution,
To the performer's diffident confusion.

XLII.

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way,
As if she rated such accomplishment
As the mere pastime of an idle day,

Pursued an instant for her own content,
Would now and then as 't were without display,
Yet with display in fact, at times relent
To such performances with haughty smile,
To show she could, if it were worth her while.

XLIII.

Now this (but we will whisper it aside)
Was-pardon the pedantic illustration -
Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride,
As did the Cynic on some like occasion;
Deeming the sage would be much mortified,
Or thrown into a philosophic passion,
For a spoilt carpet-but the " Attic Bee"
Was much consoled by his own repartee.(1)

"Thus

(1) I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, with — I trample on the pride of Plato!"-" With greater pride," as the other replied. But as carpets are meant to be trodden upon, my memory pro

[blocks in formation]

XLIV.

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 display'd; And that it is so, every body knows,

Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other, Show off-to please their company or mother.

XLV.

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 "Tu mi chamas's" from Portingale, (1)
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.(2)

bably misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece of furniture.

(1) [For two translations of this Portuguese song, see Vol. IX. p. 45.] (2) I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign parts, did rather indecorously break through the applauses of an intelligent audience — intelligent, I mean, as to music-for the words, besides being in recondite languages (it was some years before the peace, ere all the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian), were sorely disguised by the performers: this mayoress, I say, broke out with," Rot your Italianos! for my part, I loves a simple ballat !" Rossini will go a good way to bring most people to the same opinion, some day. Who would imagine that he was to be the successor of Mozart? However, I state this with diffidence, as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and of much of Rossini's; but we may say, as the connoisseur did of painting, in "The Vicar of Wakefield," "That the picture would be better painted if the painter had taken more pains, "

In Babylon's bravuras

XLVI.

as the home

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands,

The calentures of music which o'ercome

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands,

No more to be beheld but in such visions-
Was Adeline well versed, as compositions.

XLVII,

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue,"

[wrote,

Could write rhymes, and compose more than she Made epigrams occasionally too

Upon her friends, as every body ought.

But still from that sublimer azure hue,

So much the present dye, she was remote;

Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.

XLVIII.

Aurora-since we are touching upon taste,
Which now-a-days is the thermometer
By whose degrees all characters are class'd-
Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err.
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste
Had more of her existence, for in her

There was a depth of feeling to embrace

Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space.

« FöregåendeFortsätt »