from Canto XVI

41

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.

42

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.

43

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.
By the marriage bed of their lords, ‘tis said,
    He flits on the bridal eve;
And ‘tis held as faith, to their bed of death,
He comes—but not to grieve.

44

When an heir is born, he is 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.

45

But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
     He still retains his sway,
For he is yet the church’s heir
     Who ever 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.

46

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.

47

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.

48

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.

49

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.

50

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, every body knows,
Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T’other,
Show off—to please their company or mother.