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With no unequivocal symptoms of pleasure,
Then each ponderous box,

With its three patent locks,

They buried, and filled up the hole at their leisure
They planted above in a magical figure
Five acorns as big as five walnuts, or bigger.
Then the torches' fitful glare

Fell on the Abbot's silvery hair,

(I allude to his beard-his head was bare,)
As he read from a book, what perhaps was a prayer;
But whether 'twas Sanscrit, Chinese, or Hindoo,

I believe not a soul of his auditors knew,

And it matters but little to me or to you,
But you'll find in swarms,

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!
Our treasure here placed beyond all human reach is,
And safe as if stored in St. Benedict's breeches.
King Harry may come; but he'll ne'er, in good sooth, pick
Up enough plate for a decent-sized toothpick."

*

'Tis said the course of true love never
Yet ran smooth; in fact, if ever

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;
And, although unromantic may seem the admission,
Dies from the want of well-timed opposition.

But so mournful a fate

Seems not to await

The lovers whose griefs I'm about to relate.
A noble pair,

One wondrous fair,

One manly, tall, and debonair,

Are whispering their vows in the evening air.
Vain, vain,

Hapless twain !

The Lady of Bottesdale ne'er may be
Mate to a squire of low degree!
Ralph of Redgrave is stout and true,
Ralph of Redgrave is six feet two

As he stands in his stockings without a shoe;
But, like Tully, his family's rather new,-

And, what is far worse,
Ralph's private purse

By no means is heavy, but quite the reverse,—
Two failings which make an indifferent catch
For a lady of title in want of a match.

That lady's papa is stingy and close;
As for his features-one look is a dose.
He is ugly and old,
Unfeeling and cold,

With a penchant for nothing but bank-notes or gold.
His estates, too, are mortgaged or sold; for the fact is, his
Youth has been spent in most dissolute practices,
Gaming, and drinking,
Cockfighting, and winking

At ladies, without ever dreaming or thinking
His means were all gone, and his credit fast sinking;
While he'd now to come down" with a pretty smart fine
For sundry exploits in the Jacobite line :-

A mode by which Tories in those days were pepper'd,
As you'll find if you read Mr. Ainsworth's " Jack Sheppard:
All these things induced him to aid the advances

(Not being the person to throw away chances)

Of a wealthy old lord to his fair daughter Frances,
Which he thought no bad spec. to recruit his finances.

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,
She'd perish outright,
Were it only to spite

Her father for taking such things in his head.
Ralph then swore he

Would die before he

Allowed any man, Baron, Viscount, or Earl,
To walk off to church with his own darling girl.
But, meanwhile, as dying was rather a bore, he
Would first tell the lady a singular story.

He said," At Preston's bloody fray,*
As night closed o'er the well-fought day,
An aged man sore wounded lay,

Aud just as two troopers were ready to twist,

The old gentleman's neck, with one blow of his fist
He, Ralph, strongly hinted they'd better desist.
Then the old man smiled a remarkable smile
And clasping that same stout fist the while,

Acknowledged his kindness, and swore, too, that dem iť he
Would serve him in turn at his direst extremity.
That last night, which must still more remarkable seem,
That remarkable man had appeared in a dream,

And had bid him, without any nonsense or joke,
Wrap himself up snug and warm in his cloak,
And meet him at twelve by the " Abbot's old oak."

Meanwhile the clouds were collecting on high,
Darker and darker grew the sky,

And a rain-drop moistened that lady's eye
As big as a half-crown piece.

The lady she sighed, perchance for a coach,
Threw on her lover one glance of reproach,
And one on her satin pelisse.

At this moment, when what to do neither could tell, a
Page appeared, bearing a brown silk umbrella,
I don't mean a page

Of this civilized age,

In a very tight jacket, with very short tails,
Studded all over with brass-headed nails;
But an orthodox page, who, on bended knee,
Said, "Miss, be so good as to come and make tea."
Ralph instantly rose;

One kiss ere he goes

The page most discreetly is blowing his nose,-
And, before you can thrice on John Robinson call,
Ralph has cleared with a bound that garden wall.
With no less speed

He has mounted his steed,

A noble beast of bone and breed,
Of sinewy limb,
Compact, yet slim,

"Warranted free from vice and from whim.”
Meanwhile the rain was beginning to soak
Through a very bad shift for a MacIntosh cloak,
Which-a regular do,—

When only half new,

Ralph had bought sometime back from a parrot-nosed Jew,
Trusting his word, with no further thought or proof,

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;
That bitterest throe

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,
As onward they urged their headlong course.

O'er bank, brook and briar.

O'er streamlet and brake,
By the red lightning's fire
Their wild way they take.

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 ;
The horseman stays his steed's career,
And slowly breasts the steep.

As slowly climbs that ancient mound,
His courser spurns the holy ground.
Where the dead of other days around
Lie clasped in stony sleep.

And mark against the lurid sky
An oak uprears its form on high,
And flings its branches free;

A thousand storms have o'er it broke,
But well hath it stood the tempest stroke,―
It is, it is the Abbot's oak,

It is the trysting-tree.

An hour hath passed, an hour hath flown,
Ralph stands by the tree, but he stands alone.
Till, surmising his dream is a regular hoax,

He" confounds," with much energy" Abbots and oaks,
And old gentlemen dying from Highlanders' strokes,"
Then enters a shed, which, though rather a cool house,
Might serve at less need

To hold him and his steed,

As it formerly served the old monks for a tool-house.

Another hour was past and gone,
Another day was stealing on,
When Ralph, who was shaking

With cold, thought of taking

A nap, and was just between sleeping and waking,
Was roused by his horse, who stood trembling and shaking-
He opens his eyes,

To raise himself tries,

But a weight seems to press on his arms, chest, and thighs,
Like a lifeless log he helplessly lies-

Then conceive his amazement, alarm, and surprise,
When, on every side,

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.
Airy and thin,

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
A band of monks pursue their way

Till they come to the Abbot's oak.

Ralph sees an eye he before has known,-
'Tis the eye of their leader,-fixed on his own!
It is, it is,

The identical phiz

Of his friend, or one precisely like his!
These words from his thin lips broke :-
"This the time, and this the hour,
Fails the Saint's protecting power,
Gallant heart and steady hand,
Now may burst the charmed band-
Now" Here the knell

Of an Abbey bell,

On the ear of the wondering listener fell;
As if the sound,

His limbs unbound,

His strength, so strangely lost, is found!

Howling fled the wild Nightmare,
As Ralph leaped forth from his secret lair,
And gained, at a bound, the open air ;-
He gazed around, but nothing was there!
Nothing save the roofless aisle,

Nothing save the mouldering pile,

Which looked, in the deepening shade half hid,
As old and as ugly as ever it did.

The storm had passed by,

And the moon on high

Beamed steadily forth from the deep-blue sky.
One single ray through the branches broke,
It fell at the foot of the "Abbot's old oak."

Still in Ralph's ear the words were ringing
The words he had heard the old gentleman singing,
"This is the time, and this the hour;"
He felt that the tide at last was come, now or
Never to lead him to fortune and power.
Of his trusty blade
He very soon made

An apology-poor one I grant-for a spade,
And proceeded to work, though new at the trade,
With hearty good will, where the roots seemed decayed.
With labour and toil

He turned up the soil,

While he thought—
As he ought-

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.

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