Then asked her Grace what news were of the Duke of late?
Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pained
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.
XXXV
Then Henry turned to Juan, and addressed
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.
XXXVI
“Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar?
The Spirit of these walls?”—“In truth not I.”
“Why Fame—but Fame you know’s sometimes a liar—
Tells an odd story, of which by and by:
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.
XXXVII
“The last time was—”—“I pray,” said Adeline—
(Who watched 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 now,
Because the present tale has oft been told,
And is not much improved by growing old.”
XXXVIII
“Jest!” quoth Milor; “why, Adeline, you know
That we ourselves—’twas in the honey moon
Saw—”—“Well, no matter, ’twas so long ago;
But, come, I’ll set your story to a tune.”
Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow,
She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon
As touched, and plaintively began to play
The air of “ ’Twas a Friar of Orders Gray.”1172
XXXIX
“But add the words,” cried Henry, “which you made;
For Adeline is half a poetess,”
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said.
Of course the others could not but express
In courtesy their wish to see displayed
By one three talents, for there were no less—
The voice, the words, the harper’s skill, at once,
Could hardly be united by a dunce.
XL
After some fascinating hesitation—
The charming of these charmers, who seem bound,
I can’t tell why, to this dissimulation—
Fair Adeline, with eyes fixed on the ground
At first, then kindling into animation,
Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound,
And sang with much simplicity—a merit
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.
I
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 expelled the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away.II
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 remained, unchased, unchained,
And he did not seem formed of clay,
For he’s seen in the porch, and he’s seen in the church,
Though he is not seen by day.III
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 ’tis held as faith, to their bed of Death1173
He comes—but not to grieve.IV
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.
His form you may trace, but not his face,
’Tis shadowed by his cowl;
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,
And they seem of a parted soul.V
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.VI
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.
XLI
The lady’s voice ceased, and the thrilling wires
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound;
And the pause followed, 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 ’twere 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.1174
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 displayed;
And that it is so, everybody 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
