With no unequivocal symptoms of pleasure, With its three patent locks, They buried, and filled up the hole at their leisure Fell on the Abbot's silvery hair, (I allude to his beard-his head was bare,) I believe not a soul of his auditors knew, And it matters but little to me or to you, Similar forms, If you read Sandivogis', A learn'd old fogie's Dissertation "De Goblinis, Ghostis, et Bogis." "'Tis done-'tis done," Cried the Abbot ; "now run We need some refection. And, hark! it strikes one! * 'Tis said the course of true love never It does so run, It's very soon done, Like ladies, they say, Who have their own way, It dwindles as snow on a very warm day; But so mournful a fate Seems not to await The lovers whose griefs I'm about to relate. One wondrous fair, One manly, tall, and debonair, Are whispering their vows in the evening air. Hapless twain ! The Lady of Bottesdale ne'er may be As he stands in his stockings without a shoe; And, what is far worse, By no means is heavy, but quite the reverse,— That lady's papa is stingy and close; With a penchant for nothing but bank-notes or gold. At ladies, without ever dreaming or thinking A mode by which Tories in those days were pepper'd, (Not being the person to throw away chances) Of a wealthy old lord to his fair daughter Frances, Slowly and sadly the lovers were walking, On their hardships, and some other odd matters talking; The lady had said That rather than wed An old noodle just ready to take to his bed, Her father for taking such things in his head. Would die before he Allowed any man, Baron, Viscount, or Earl, He said," At Preston's bloody fray,* Aud just as two troopers were ready to twist, The old gentleman's neck, with one blow of his fist Acknowledged his kindness, and swore, too, that dem iť he And had bid him, without any nonsense or joke, Meanwhile the clouds were collecting on high, And a rain-drop moistened that lady's eye The lady she sighed, perchance for a coach, At this moment, when what to do neither could tell, a Of this civilized age, In a very tight jacket, with very short tails, One kiss ere he goes The page most discreetly is blowing his nose,- He has mounted his steed, A noble beast of bone and breed, "Warranted free from vice and from whim.” When only half new, Ralph had bought sometime back from a parrot-nosed Jew, For its being a patent-wove, London-made waterproof, A fact, by the way, which most forcibly shows men How sharp they must look when they deal with old clothesmen. Little reck'd Ralph of the wind and the rain, On his inmost heart was preying that pain Which man may know once, but can ne'er know again; Of deepest woe, To feel he was loved, and was loved in vain. Now fiercer grew the tempest's force, And the whirlwind eddied round rider and horse, O'er bank, brook and briar. O'er streamlet and brake, A country so awkward to go such a pace on Might have posed Captain Beecher, Dan Seffert, or Mason. At once a flash, livid and clear, Shows a moss-grown ruin mouldering near ; As slowly climbs that ancient mound, And mark against the lurid sky A thousand storms have o'er it broke, It is the trysting-tree. An hour hath passed, an hour hath flown, He" confounds," with much energy" Abbots and oaks, To hold him and his steed, As it formerly served the old monks for a tool-house. Another hour was past and gone, With cold, thought of taking A nap, and was just between sleeping and waking, To raise himself tries, But a weight seems to press on his arms, chest, and thighs, Then conceive his amazement, alarm, and surprise, In its ancient pride, He sees an old monastery slowly arise; Chapel and hall, Buttress and wall, Ivied spire, and turret tall, Grow on his vision one and all. At first they begin To fall into outline and slowly fill in ; At length in their proper proportions they fix, And assume an appearance exactly like "bricks." From the postern-gate of that Abbey grey Till they come to the Abbot's oak. Ralph sees an eye he before has known,- The identical phiz Of his friend, or one precisely like his! Of an Abbey bell, On the ear of the wondering listener fell; His limbs unbound, His strength, so strangely lost, is found! Howling fled the wild Nightmare, Nothing save the mouldering pile, Which looked, in the deepening shade half hid, The storm had passed by, And the moon on high Beamed steadily forth from the deep-blue sky. Still in Ralph's ear the words were ringing An apology-poor one I grant-for a spade, He turned up the soil, While he thought— On that adage which taught "Perseverance, and patience, and plenty of oil;" Till, wearied grown, Muscle and bone, His sword broke short on a broad flag stone. |