Читать книгу The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook - active 19th century Novice - Страница 4

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As a preface in verse

Is perhaps the reverse

Of the common and so vulgar way,

It is thus I intend

Introducing my friend,

Who would fain his respects to you pay.

Of the place of his birth,

Though some snug spot on earth,

I ne'er heard, so can't tell;

Though I guess that the rogue,

From his twang of the brogue,

Did in Old Erin dwell.

But if not, it was surely some queer Irishman

Who related the tale. I've tried all that I can

To gain further partic'lars, which p'raps might amuse,

But I naught could fish out—ev'ry bait proved no use.

Still I'll pause to explain

(It may p'rhaps entertain),

How at first I acquainted became

With the facts I relate,

Which, with truth I may state,

Occurred at some long bygone date.

You must know that I love,

All amusements above,

To arise ere the sun

Has his day's work begun,

And roam to some river,

Who'll kindly deliver

Up his subjects to fate

For a little ground bait.

Oh! how often my slumbering dreams have been broke

By the thought I'm too late, and I've suddenly woke

To discover 'twas dark, and have dozed off again;

But the dose to repeat, hope for rest being vain.

I in fancy have fished in most curious places—

Down a coal-hole, in areas, and off cellar bases;

Where the queerest of things you can name I have caught, or

As I dropt down my line, has retreated the water.

Now that angling's a passion to me appears plain,

Which amounts to disease if a tight hold it gain;

It may oft be relieved by right treatment, perhaps,

But then, sooner or later, there's sure a relapse.

Standing out a whole day, from its dawn until night,

In a good drenching rain, without even a bite,

Is a capital thing for just cooling the brain,

Though time still will revive—and it warms up again.

It is contagious, too, for a brother it caught,

As he slept in a room where my tackle was brought;

He was up with the lark, and my top joint had broke

Ere the 'larum had rung, which the family woke.

Let me see, it is now about five years ago,

When, admiring the Irish and blarney,

I packed up all my traps, and my tackle also,

And set sail for the banks of Killarney.

I had heard of the lovely and beautiful views

Which adorned the fair Emerald Isle;

So as long as I'd time I resolved to roam through,

And admire what had made Nature smile.

My feelings, as the sea I crossed,

Are distant from the tale;

Suffice it that I suffered loss—

'Twas not a pleasant sail.

My rising thoughts unable to control,

I drowned my sorrows in the waves that roll;

The sickly waves a tribute would demand,

Nor gave me rest till I obeyed command.

With much delight I traversed o'er

The land of Pats and praties,

And mourned to note from what I saw

That indolence their fate is.

A pipe stuck easy in their mouth

For mind and body food is;

Their dress, I must say, is uncouth,

For it next door to nude is....

I'm speaking of the lower sort,

Not so bad are their betters;

Though some, who wealth find ready wrought,

Rest in luxurious fetters.

And have they been for ever so?

Industrious, were they never?

Some things I've seen would p'rhaps say, "No,

As now they were not ever."

But think not, reader, I intend

To write on why and wherefore;

I know not what these folks will mend,

So cannot tell you therefore.

(Though industry in some to plant

I tried, and put in training;

But soon they cried, "O mend-i-cant!"—

So beggars are remaining.)

Nor is it now my wish to write

On Ireland's beauteous scenery;

Though filled with rapture and delight,

I'll spare you what I've seen; or I

Might fill a dozen pages quite,

Describing lakes and greenery.

No; such is not my present plan,

On angling turns my story:

The pleasures of a fisherman

I soon shall lay before ye.

By some mishap at Hull or Cork,

My tackle was mislaid;

So fate did inclination baulk,

And sport some days delayed.

I just had purchased, all quite new,

Of flies a complete set;

And though I had my rod, 'tis true,

I would not fresh ones get.

I'll wait, thinks I, and roam about,

Though some days it may cost.

I'll find the lucky places out,

So time will not be lost.

By telegraph's electric wire,

Or steam, I'll let them know

The place to which I'd fain desire

These luckless flies should go.

'Twas on a morn as bright as fair

As any time, or anywhere,

Mine eyes have ever seen;

For bright and cloudless was the sky,

And blue as any maiden's eye,

Where tears have seldom been.

It made my heart with pleasure beat;

A lightness seemed to raise my feet,

And bear them forth to roam,

Ere yet the morning meal was laid,

To ramble down a mossy glade

Some many miles from home.

Then climbed I up a dew-bathed steep,

Just on the other side to peep

And see what might be there.

By tangled branches grasped right close,

Above impediments I rose,

And, lo, a valley fair!

Where, 'midst the shade of drooping trees,

All quiv'ring in the morning breeze,

Appeared a glitt'ring stream,

Which ran for miles, than gold more bright;

Refulgent with the source of light,

The waves like diamonds gleam.

Impelled I rushed like some wild deer,

And bounding o'er each bramble near,

Like torrent's fearful course,

Was forced to run a whole field's length

Before expended was the strength

Of gravitation's force.

When at the water's side, I found

An aged man, who gazed around

Half terrified, to see

If some mad bull approached that way,

Or steam-engine had gone astray;

And stared surprised at me.

I bowed to him, and begged, polite,

His pardon for the sudden fright

Which I, unconscious, gave.

"It was the beauteous scene which made

Me scamper down so wild," I said;

"For which I pardon crave.

For, like yourself, I love the sport,

And 'twas this sparkling stream which brought

Out hitherward my feet.

What numbers, sir! what splendid trout!

You must have early sallied out:

Such sport I seldom meet!"

"A stranger, then, you are," said he;

"The fishes here bite mostly free,

They love the gaudy fly.

But scarce an hour I here have been,

And hooked the few that you have seen

For breakfast. By the bye,

I very nearly had forgot

That time for me will tarry not,

That hour is drawing nigh.

But, sir, with pleasure, if you love

The sport, I'll show you where they rove,

For often here am I;

And every nook and hole I know,

Which any time you please I'll show:

My house you yonder spy".

I, thanking, praised the old man's skill,

Though, as I viewed him nearer still,

I deemed him younger far

Than I at first beholding thought;

'Twas care, not age, had deeply wrought

The wrinkle-furrowed scar.

But though erect as poplar straight,

He bent not 'neath the crushing weight

Of Time's remorseless might.

Yet few and scanty were his locks,

Which were than Shetland's rill-bathed flocks

Longer and purer white.

A sudden int'rest in mine eyes,

Which unaccounted will arise

Ofttimes within the brain,

I felt tow'rds him, and longed to know

What circumstance had made him so—

If grief, or wearing pain.

He friendly seemed, and not averse

On fishing topics to converse;

At length I told my woe,

How that my flies and lines behind

Were left. Said he, "Oh, never mind;

If home with me you'll go,

With pleasure I will lend you all

You want; my stock's by no means small—

Not very modern though.

And, p'rhaps, if I, a stranger, may

Request a boon, as such a way

From home you've rambled out,

I should feel overjoyed if you

Would stay and let your palate too

Be tickled by my trout.

Except my housekeeper there's none,

And she will pardon what I've done,

So pray do not refuse."

I, pondering for a moment, thought,

When he a fresh inducement brought

Which drowned my frail excuse.

"And afterwards I'll take you out

Where you may catch as fine a trout

As ever bit at hook."

And, truly, I sharp hunger felt,

And as three miles from where I dwelt

I was, I gladly took

Him at his word, and pleased him quite

By thus accepting his invite.

He seized my hand and twice it shook,

And thanking me with cordial look,

He smiling said, "For you I feel

A friendship, sir, I'll not conceal.

You cause my fancies back to fly

To youth's bright days, when fearless I,

Like you, would dash through passes where

A slip had sent me past all care;

But now those joyous moments seem

Like wanderings in a pleasant dream,

And never will return, I fear.

But, see, my garden-gate is here."

He led the way, with fish in hand;

We neared the house, perhaps not grand

In point of size, yet truly there

Resided Elegance, and Care

Expended on each part had been:

No imperfections could be seen,

For Order reigned throughout the place,

Assisted by her sister Grace.

The walls were built of reddish brick,

And massive as a house were thick,

That meant to combat with old Time,

For still they seemed now in their prime.

Though cent'ries two past them had strayed

They scarce had an impression made.

A carved verandah ran before

The front, and arched above the door

Arose, where flowers twined around

Their sweetness, and a dwelling found.

"We're rather homely folks," said he,

"My housekeeper and I: we see

And hear but little of the news

And fashions which you moderns use,

But sure I am you will excuse

Our queerness, which may chance amuse."

With this we reached the hall, whose floor

Was paved with stone. He moved before,

And throwing wide an open door,

He bade me enter and wage war

With hunger a few moments more,

The while he after the fishes saw.

The house was large, and opened out

Upon a lawn, where roamed about

A gentle fawn, who darted through

The casement, but as quick withdrew,—

He missed the hand that used to feed,

So backward flew with rapid speed.

The floor of polished oak was made,

O'er which a carpet rich was laid.

The furniture was carved antique;

And had it been allowed to speak,

Might tales of stirring int'rest tell

Of what in ancient times befell:

But that which most attracted me

Seemed younger far than all to be,

The portrait of a lady fair

As ever breathed the vital air,

Or drove a lover to despair,

Or claimed in any mischief share;—

As beautiful a face was there

As poet's quill did e'er compare

With aught above the earth that grows;

Than even winter's drifting snows,

Her neck was white, while dark her eyes

As night when moonbeams shun the skies;

Her glossy locks down trickling,

Were blacker than the raven's wing,

While fresh-born pearls might even die with grief,

Out-rivalled by her more transparent teeth.

The rosy, tint-like blushes on her cheek,

Would puzzle Language, if he truth must speak.

In fact, I saw the portrait was not real,—

A painter's fancy, beautiful, ideal.

Yet still, enraptured, in a pensive mood,

Entranced I gazed, more pleased the more I viewed,

When, unperceived, beside me stood my host,

Who like myself in wand'ring thought seemed lost.

He sighed; I turned, and on his cheek beheld

A falling tear his mem'ry's grief impelled:

But soon above it rose a cheerful smile,

And Joy seemed anxious Sorrow to beguile.

"What form! what grace!" half questioning, said I,

"No mortal face such beauty could supply?"

"But yet a fairer one I've seen," said he.

"Then surely she th' original must be?"

"Not her, I mean; the grave has closed above

That beauteous form, which seeing was to love:

My housekeeper I meant,—you smile!" said he,

"I own that I may not impartial be;

But still I hope you will not seek her heart,

For it would kill me were we forced to part:

Come, promise me you will not fall in love,"

He joking said, and cast his eyes above.

I gave my word, though really I must own

On first beholding I was near o'erthrown,

And nigh had fallen into Cupid's snare,

For such a sight I did but half prepare.

A step approached, he left that toe to seek,

A smacking kiss salutes his aged cheek,

Then, whisp'ring low of me, I heard them speak,

And felt uncertain what I ought to do.

When not long after they both entered through

The half-closed door my back was turned unto.

"His housekeeper," thinks I: "I'll not look round

Until he speak, but seem in thought profound,

Still gazing on that face for charms renowned."

"My niece, my friend." I introduced am now,

And so, perforce, must turn me round and bow.

When, like Miss Lalla Rookh,

In Moore's delightful book

(Who found her husband was Young What's-his-name),

I with amazement found

(When I had gazed around)

The housekeeper and portrait were the same.

The night-dark orbs, which radiant smiles bedeck

(Like sunbeams dancing on the ruffled wave),

The pearly teeth, the snowy, swan-like neck,

The roseate hue which health unsparing gave,

The velvet cheek, and deepened on the lips

(Like double poppies whence the wise bee sips

Entrancing sweets), and ev'ry other charm

That tongue has told, or fancy could describe,

In both appeared—yea, which had won the palm

In beauty's flower-show (without a bribe)

I cannot tell, but let the living form

But speak a word, and ev'ry doubt is gone.

His niece, he said; his sister's child is she?

No wonder then their faces well agree.

But still I gave him a reproving look,

At which he smiled, while in his arm he took

The portrait's twin, and bid me follow where

The well-dressed trout for our repast prepare.

The meal concluded, out we went

With tackle which he kindly lent,

And reached a lonely spot,

Where, at the swarms of glittering flies,

The speckled trout enraptured rise,

Like lightning, or a shot;

And soon a splendid pair I caught,

As fine as I had seen, methought,

Though I've tried lots of places.

He calls: "What luck, my friend?" says he.

"A brace!" "The same have favoured me—

So that's a pair of braces;

And if the sun will but lie hid

The fleecy, flutt'ring clouds amid,

For two short hours more

(Unless your arm be wearied out),

We'll line the bank with sparkling trout,

In number twice a score."

I said before, I anxious felt to learn

The old man's history,

There seemed some mystery;

For he from grave to gay, and back, would turn

So very fast,

That scarcely past

The witty jest had flown, before a sigh

Burst forth, and buried deep he long would lie

In thought;

And nought

Would rouse him up, till some one near him spoke,

And then some anecdote or lively joke

Appeared the offspring of his lethargy.

In vain the fish, with wistful eye,

Might long to seize his tempting fly,

For rod and line unheeded lie

Quite harmless on the shore.—

At breakfast also, by the bye,

The trout got cold, or very nigh,

Before he asked if I would try

Another mouthful more.

I asked his name, and, as I thought,

My voice him to remembrance brought;

"The Doctor I am called," said he;

"Though years have passed since I a fee

Have taken for my skill.

My name is Hall, so—Doctor Hall

Will kill or cure all folks who call,

With bleeding, draught, or pill.

My niece the nasty stuff prepares,

And as she many visits shares,

As doctor's boy, she will

Oft roam with basket on her arm,

From hut to cot, from house to farm,

With med'cine all to fill;

While many a needy child displays

Her needlework, which snugly lays

Beneath the physics, while she strays,

Unseen her gifts to share.

It is not I her fame should blaze,

But still my tongue unbid will praise

A life she spends in seeking ways

To cure all human care."

My name then in return I gave,

And chanced to say at times

My business was for fame and gold

To dress my thoughts in rhymes.

"You don't say so!" with joy, said he.

"You're just the man I've longed to see

For many years, but never yet

Have one of your profession met.

I have at home a curious tale,—

A legend, which, I much bewail,

Has been by time or mice defaced,

So much that parts are scarcely traced:

My wish has been, a man to find

Whose taste to poetry inclined,

Who kindly would the remnants read

And fill in where the sense may need—

A few words here—a passage there—

While now and then a page may share,

Destruction's touch, and need much skill

The space with likesome rhymes to fill.

Though some expense th' improvements make,

If you the task will undertake

I care not, and with gladness will

Repay you for your time and skill.

Through circumstance unfortunate

Destroyed have been the name and date

(If any there have been),

Yet still I traces here and there,

Which seem upon the tale to bear,

In many parts have seen.

I have not quite decided yet,

Whether to print it, or to let

It still reside in ink.

But you shall first the tale peruse

(Unless the office you refuse);

I'll hear then what you think."

"With pleasure, sir, I will comply

With your request; but really I

Cannot with honesty deny

My fear lest I should not supply

The skill you need; but still will try,

For now I have much leisure time,

And love exploring ancient rhyme."

With many thanks, he begg'd I'd with him dine.

"Now do not, sir, from etiquette, decline,

For afterwards together we will read

The tale, and judge how it had best proceed.

There's none but my housekeeper shares

The meal with me, and she up-stairs

Shall have her meat and pudding sent,

If that robs me of your consent.

Of course it is quite right of you

To seek excuse, but make them few,

I pray you, sir, for greatly I

Prefer unformal courtesy.

For what is fashion but a chain to bind

The wretch called man with tortures of some kind,—

The small-toed shoe, to grind his very corns,—

The wasted waist, which age for ever mourns,—

The bulging sleeve, which dives in ev'ry dish,

And trailing dress to raise the dust? I wish

The world would wiser grow. But, what's more strange

To me, is, though their fancies ever change

(Which shows they never can perfection reach),

They still their youth in copy slips will teach

That maxim immoral, you p'rhaps have heard them tell,

That 'to be out of fashion, one might just as well

Far out of the universe at a distance dwell.'

"But still, sir, fashions are of use

(Though I too smile at their abuse),

For shops are oft so overstocked

That trade would on the head be knocked,

If Fancy did not often range

And force his slaves their dress to change.

Some forms are also needful too,

In daily life; and strange, yet true,

You'll ever find when Form has flown

That Order soon will get o'erthrown,

And then how often rows arise

In thus disordered families.

The ladies, as 'tis merely form

To decorate at early morn,

Forget their tresses to unfurl

And paper-prisoned leave each curl.

In dressing-gown and sunk-heel'd shoe,

The master saunters into view

Long after breakfast has begun,

Whence stragglers leave as soon as done.

The infants, too, in disarray,

Tease till allowed to have their way,

As parents do not like, they say,

Formality in babes; while they,

Who will not nat'rally obey,

Think now, since taxes are so few,

The duty's off their parents too.

But open house and open heart,

Which would to all who need impart

Unbounded hospitality,

Has ever been the poet's song,

And shall continue so, as long

As they retain vitality."

"And gladly I your offer take

To dine, and hope your tale to make

Subject of immortality.

Then as in search of health I came,

Your skill the wand'rer shall reclaim

If he's in this locality."

A beggar here accosted him

And begged to drink his health.

I smiled to hear this Irish whim,

And pictured to myself

The tattered man, and host so trim,

As Poverty and Wealth.

But though he could not say him nay,

The honour did decline,—

"The wretch has drunk his health away,

And now he would drink mine."

Methought a brighter smile bedecked

The maiden's cheek when back I came;

She certainly did not expect

That he would bring me there again.

But sometimes we ourselves deceive,

As what we wish we oft believe.

The dinner and the lady flown,

We chatted o'er the wine.

But though his glass he left alone,

He would replenish mine.

At length he told his history,

And thus cleared up the mystery,

Which clothed him like a spell.

'Twas sad and touching though to hear

The anguish past of many a year,

Yet pleased his grief to tell

He seemed, for cheerfully he spoke,

Though oft a deep-drawn sigh forth broke

From Sorrow's care-worn well.

"This house above our heads," said he;

"(Of late my uncle's property),

Has been the family estate

Longer than I can backward date.

The orphan of a brother, I

Resided here in days gone by,

His table and his heart to share.

Thus childhood passed without a care;

At college then his kindness placed,

And gladly my improvements traced.

When, as he left the choice to me,

A surgeon I resolved to be.

"The portrait of this worthy man

I'll sometime show, although I can

But briefly on his virtues dwell;

'Twould weary you were I to tell

Of all the kindness shown to me,

Since when an infant on his knee,

Beside my father's dying bed,

He promised to be mine instead.

"A tall and well-formed man was he,

Beloved for his humanity.

Yea, oft he would so gen'rous be

That some called it insanity.

Still happily together we,

Far from the empty vanity

Of public care and worldly strife,

Enjoyed a peaceful, quiet life,

Without a wish to share or mix

In gaiety or politics;

Which were, he said, so fraught with tricks,

Emoluments on self to fix.

It made his spirit boil to see

Their mercantile hypocrisy.

But though this may at times be true,

His must be a distorted view

Of legislative law; yet still,

How often proud Ambition will

Stoop down to acts remote from praise,

Himself above a foe to raise.

"If harsh at times my uncle might

By some be deemed, for what seemed right,

Whate'er the cost, he would uphold,

Though down his plans and wishes rolled

Like sand-banks 'fore the rushing tide,

When duty asked him to decide.

Residing in this lovely spot,

Our guests were few, yet cared we not,

For he, in calculations deep,

Would pass the day, and then would creep

Aloft at night to watch the stars

Revolving in their golden cars.

But though so much engaged was he,

To prove he ne'er neglected me,

He lessons gave in Latin, Greek,

And French, which he as well could speak,

And fast, as a Parisian guide,

For he had travelled far and wide.

Then sought he cheerful company,

More suitable than his could be,

Lest he should make a monk of me;

For sometimes he could sit for hours

A-pondering o'er the force and pow'rs

Of comets which had gone astray,

To find when they'd return that way.

The widow of a valued friend,

A helping hand would also lend

To guide me, where his skill might fail

(Her loss I much as his bewail).

Her cottage was in yonder glen,

Though much has altered been since then,

Where I would creep away from solid worth,

To enjoy the smiling cheerfulness and mirth

Of fair Rosina, then a beauteous child,

Light as the fawn, and oh! I fear as wild;

For we together o'er the hills would roam,

And through the woods, without a thought of home,

Until the clouds, robbed of their tinted light,

Told us the brightest day has still its night.

"Oh! those, indeed, were bright and joyous days,

And blissful visions mem'ry oft will raise

Of that blest time, ere Grief, with tyrant sway,

From out this breast drove Hope and Peace away.

"Years passed; we grew; I loved her more and more,

And pleased our relatives th' attachment saw;

But soon I left for Cam's far distant shore,

Exchanging love and peace for ancient lore.

Yet short my college life appears, for I

Had well been trained, and sought to try

To soar above the mass, and force proud Fame

Within her tablets to inscribe my name:

Not from ambition, but the wish to prove

Worthy my guardian's and Rosina's love.

How well can I remember now that day,

When, with the honours I had borne away,

I homeward flew, to lay them at her feet,

And hear her voice than highest praise more sweet.

But Disappointment mocked my eager gaze,

As anxiously (from out the post-drawn chaise)

I watched to see her graceful form appear

From out the cot, and, chilled with unknown fear,

My heart shrunk back and dared not hope that she

Would at my guardian's be awaiting me.

"My worthy uncle welcomed me with joy,

But even kindness sometimes can annoy,

For on that night he talked as much, I'm sure,

As he had done in any week before,

While I so often cast a glance around.

He asked, at length, if I much diff'rence found

In the old house?—this proved a hint to me,

And made me notice more his courtesy.

"'Rosina and her mother went,' said he,

'A week ago some distant friend to see:

They hope to see you, though, before you leave.

A month or two they stay there, I believe.'

"How vain is Hope's, how frail is Pleasure's charm!

Anticipation well may boast the palm;

While Happiness, like spectre in disguise,

Enchants, and then for ever from us flies.

"Thus was the dream of months,—yea years, destroyed,

And nought was left me but a restless void,

To furnish which I studied ev'ry cause

Of mortal Pain, and Chemistry's fixed laws;

But though I learnt the broken limb to bind

I found no ease for my distracted mind.

But much too long upon these scenes I dwell,

Excuse me, sir, for ev'ry word I tell

Seems like an echo from the ruined past,

Fresh as if Time this moment wound the blast.

"My friends returned a week before the day

Fixed as the utmost limit of my stay,

For all th' arrangements had been made for me

To practise sciences and surgery.

But greatly had Rosina changed since I

In sadness wished her that last, long good-bye.

The bounding step I loved so much to greet

Was stately now, while for those kisses sweet

(Which would such rapture in my bosom wake)

She proffered me her tiny hand to shake.

I rather disappointed felt, I own,

To find the girl to womanhood had grown,

But yet I would not any charm displace;

For each she wore with such bewitching grace,

That soon I liked her gentleness far more

Than e'en the lively mirth I loved before.

But though her timid manner fled away

(Like mist at morning 'fore the sunny ray),

My suit, alas! progressed but little way,

For diffidence my lips would ever seal

When most I wished my passion to reveal;

From the dread fear the spell might thus be broke

My trembling voice grew dumb and never spoke.

A hint I from my guardian too received.

'My boy,' said he, 'I hope you'll not be grieved,

But be advised, at this your dawn of life,

To start your course unburdened with a wife;

Not that I doubt the value of your choice,

Your conduct ever makes my heart rejoice.

Still wait a while until your skill and fame

Shall add a doctor's title to your name;

You'll then have seen the ways, and struggles, too,

Of this vain world (placed in their proper view),

And p'rhaps may many anxious moments save,

The heart, that, loving loves unto the grave.'

"Time crept—I toiled in spite of failing strength,

And through th' examination passed at length

With honours crowned, when as my health waxed low,

I homeward wished for some few weeks to go.

I fixed the day, but did not let them know,

That unexpected I myself might show.

But on the morn at eve of starting came

A letter, signed with her loved mother's name;

Which told my heart how vainly passion raged—

Rosina to another was engaged.

What then took place I've scarcely power to say,

For sense and reason nearly broke away,

While I had surely cleft the foaming sea

Had not my man rushed forth and hindered me;

For all that night, in spite of wind and rain,

I paced the deck to cool my burning brain.

But ere again the vessel touched the land

I calmer grew, and gained my self-command;

And gave him orders never to make known

The great excitement I had lately shown.

"Arrived at home I entered quietly,

And found my uncle in deep reverie;

So much absorbed he did not notice me.

I sat me down. 'Poor fellow!' muttered he,

'This is indeed an unexpected blow—

I never dreamt that matters could end so;

It will affect him heavily, I fear—

O that I could his wounded spirit cheer!'

'Uncle,' I rising said, 'behold, I'm here!'

He started, grasped my hand, while swift a tear,

Pursued by others, bounded off his cheek;

His swelling heart appeared too full to speak.

But soon recov'ring from the first surprise,

To calm my grief he unavailing tries;

(For age and youth behold with diff'ring eyes,

And one as well a vessel might advise

Straight on unmoved its chart-drawn course to keep,

When fiercely battling with the raging deep,

As tell a youthful heart, by anguish torn,

To calm its poignant grief, and cease to mourn.)

"I struggled hard but long could not sustain,

For cold and fever seized my care-worn brain;

My health, by over-study much impaired,

For this encounter was but ill prepared.

For weeks unconscious in this state I lay,

My life, despaired of, nearly sank away;

Until sweet Hope appeared with healing beam,

And I awoke as from a pleasant dream.

I dreamt my love had watched my bed beside,

And nursed me till within her arms I died.

A step approached—oh! could that form be she?

I closed my eyes and slumb'ring seemed to be;

What would I not have given then to tell!

But yet I would not, dared not, break the spell.

'Have I been wise?' a voice beside me said,

And gently smoothed the pillow 'neath my head;

'Have I done right, in giving thus away

The heart he deemed was his until that day?

Oh, cruel fate! my love I must forsake,

Or else the heart that loved so true will break.

This I'll resolve, if he to health revives,

And for my hand again as suitor strives,

I'll fancy that we were betrothed before,

And try to love him as we loved of yore.'

What joy! what bliss! what rapture! filled my heart.

'One word, and I from her shall never part.

But oh! she loves another one,' thought I

(And fell Despair and Grief again drew nigh),

'Who may more worthy be, though I deny

That he can love more true, more ardently.

Still can my heart accept this sacrifice,

Which duty forced her spirit to devise?

Should selfish feelings have sufficient weight

To wish two hearts betrothed to separate?

No, I would rather lonely, ling'ring, die,

Than thus my peace with so much suff'ring buy.'

A shiv'ring seized me, and I heard her rise;

Yet closely clenched I sealed my quiv'ring eyes;

While on my cheek I felt her warm, sweet breath—

Oh, 'twas a struggle fierce as life with death!

For, weaker grown, I scarcely could restrain

The varied feelings battling in my brain;

For Hope, Fear, Justice, in succession reigned,

Until Delirium conquered all again.

Then trembling Life o'erpower'd seemed to have fled,

And with a piercing scream she told them I was dead.

"But health and strength returning, by degrees

Brought to my mind that long-lost stranger Ease;

But weeks and weeks passed silently before

I dared request to see her face once more.

The youth she loved then entered by her side,

And on the morrow she became his bride.

"An officer for India bound was he,

And with her mother soon they crossed the sea,

While I roamed o'er the Continent to find

Relief and comfort for my restless mind.

But scarcely past a twelvemonth spent at Rome

Ere mournful tidings summoned me back home.

My worthy uncle had died suddenly,

And made me heir to all his property.

"But what is treasure but a gilded toy?

The wounded spirit never can enjoy

Its hollow pomp, which ne'er can satisfy

The craving heart (where hope bloomed but to die).

Yes, ev'ry tie which bound to earth had flown,

And I seemed left forsaken and alone;

The guiding star which cheered me with its light

Had, sinking, left me overwhelmed with night.

Years past, but still my feelings were the same,

When melancholy news from India came,—

The youthful husband in the war was slain,

(Her mother long time in the grave had lain,)

And poor Rosina, worn with care and grief,

In childhood's scenes resolved to seek relief:

But deep disease was rooted in her breast,

And soon her gentle spirit sank to rest.

'My child! my child! Oh, guard it for my sake!'

Were the last words she ere departing spake.

'An orphan's life from infancy was thine,

O then in pity aid and succour mine!'

"This sacred trust has yielded me more joy

Than all my wealth, by serving to employ

My vacant thoughts, and giving Hope fresh life,

Who all but perished in that mental strife.

"The portrait of Rosina you have seen,

Her daughter, too (my housekeeper, I mean),

You've also met,—who now must waiting be

I fear, for I have long delayed the tea.

"O never then, my friend, let grim Despair

Reign o'er thy soul; a balm to soothe the care

Which wrecks thy peace may suddenly appear,

The drooping heart and gloomy thoughts to cheer."

In chat and song the evening passed away,

For oft Rosina with some Irish lay,

Of touching sweetness, charmed th' enraptured ear,

So soft and plaintive like the whisp'rings near

Of some bright spirit sent from Eden's bowers

To cheer awhile this dark, cold world of ours.

The tale to see

I asked, but he

Begged I would take it home with me.

"At leisure you

Can there read through

What really I believe is true;

For ruins near,

As proofs appear,

That once an abbey flourished here,

And I the name of Mary found

Carved on a stone from underground,

While in the family for years

The tale has been; and it appears

My grandfather searched o'er the place,

And ev'ry record he could trace,

Who said, from all he'd seen and knew,

The legend without doubt was true.

A smatt'ring, too, of facts I've heard

From folks who never, on my word,

Have seen the tale, or could have guessed

That I the manuscript possessed.

The river, too, in which to-day

We fished, through forests wends its way,

And many (if you so desire)

Can show you where our worthy friar

In vain his basket tried to fill,

Not from the want of fish but skill;

Which place since then has haunted been;

For oft on dusky nights is seen

A fisherman, who strives in vain

Advantage o'er a fish to gain,

Until you near, when with a scream

He plunges headlong in the stream.

This story first in early youth

I heard, and, lest it might be truth,

I ne'er the place have ventured nigh

Until the sun was pretty high.

But I forget, you do not know

The tale; but read, and I will show

You where it is, that you may go

('Tis best upon a drizzling night)

To see this worried angling sprite."

I rose to leave,—it was a splendid night,

The rising moon shone beautifully bright,

And pleased I dwelt upon my homeward walk,

Which formed the subject of our passing talk;

But as we parted at the garden-gate

A groom appearing said, "The horses wait."

My thoughtful host this pleasure had supplied,

And greatly I enjoyed the moonlight ride.

This may indeed (thought I) a sample be

Of Ireland's pleasing hospitality.

Ere seeking rest I thought to read

The tale, but found that much indeed

Of time and patience it would need,

Before its pages could defy

The watchful critic's piercing eye,

Which seeks and points out ev'ry flaw;

(Like landladies, when we withdraw

From sea-side towns, who items tack

On bills for many a hidden crack,

Which ev'ry lodger ev'ry year

Has paid them for, and paid too, dear.)

In fact, so much had been destroyed

That really I felt quite annoyed,

And feared I never could restore

And make it perfect as before.

But, quite resolved to do my best,

I gave my quill but little rest,

And sketched the outlines in a week;

When, as I wished with him to speak

About some parts, I roamed across

And found him,—not at home, of course,

Yet waited I quite patiently

(Although some time he p'rhaps might be),

And rambled o'er the garden wide

With fair Rosina by my side.

At length he came, and truly he

Seemed pleased my work and self to see.

"You must have studied soon and late

To get it in this forward state.

Those truant flies have never yet,

I fear, their rightful owner met.

I thank you greatly for this speed,

But tell me, will the public read

A tale like this, if I should choose

To print it for them to peruse?"

"Well, really, I can't tell," said I;

"If it were mine I think I'd try:

But many parts must altered be

Before it will from faults be free.

The satires on the lovely sex

Some gentle heart will surely vex;

You ought to rather soften down

What else will make some fair one frown."

"Not so," said he; "'tis only those

Whom the dress fits will wear the clothes,

For each will on her neighbour try

The pointed truths the lines supply,

And all will laugh and much enjoy

What does not them, but friends, annoy."

"Then, sir, I would curtail that scene

In which the Friar feigns a dream;

The tale he tells is much too long,

And critics will pronounce it wrong,—

Too perfect it appears to me

For an impromptu fib to be."

"That's exactly the point, my good fellow," he said;

"It was Fiction who stuffed all those lies in his head.

He the fair muse invoked, so she had (I don't doubt it)

Made him think of a good one while he was about it."

I made other remarks, but each frailty he proved

To be rather a beauty, so none were removed.

And, kind reader, I'll beg you to keep this in mind,

If with aught in the legend you wish fault to find,

That each blemish or bull's in the manuscript line,

While the prettiest bits are undoubtedly mine.

But though he and Rosina took

Me out one morn to have a look

At what is called the Friar's Nook,

And we together rambled o'er

The moulding ruins to explore,

Where I the name of Mary saw

(Or what a tombstone seemed to me),

I yet could never plainly see

Why these should proofs conclusive be

That Peter had resided here;

But as it seemed to him so clear,

I would not breathe a contradiction,

But thought, Then truth's more strange than fiction.

But now the tale itself we'll read,

I have delayed you long, indeed;

But what is life? to most a plain

In which men roam in search of gain;

They build, they plant, they heap up store,

They work, they toil, they strive for more,

Nor joys nor comforts will desire:

Their wish, they say, is to retire,

But when they would their wealth enjoy

They find that every sweet will cloy.

Now, though your patience, reader, 's vast,

In hopes to reach the tale at last,

I still must hope that here and there

Some parts you'll find reward your care.

The truth is I, so pleas'd had been

With all that I had heard and seen,

I thought, perhaps, that you

Might with the old man's history,

With all its pleasing mystery,

Be interested too.