XX. As Juan mused on mutability, Or on his mistress-terms synonymous— Or step ran sadly through that antique house, XXI. It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd XXII. Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint Of such a spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. XXIII. Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd-the thing of air Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place; And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted. XXIV. The third time, after a still longer pause, The shadow pass'd away-but where? the hall Doors there were many, through which, by the laws XXV. eyes He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, XXVI. All there was as he left it; still his taper The paper was right easy to peruse; XXVII. This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook- XXVIII. He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, At risk of being quizzed for superstition. XXIX. He dress'd; and, like young people, he was wont This morning rather spent less time upon His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut, His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied XXX. And when he walk'd down into the saloon, XXXI. She look'd and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale tale. Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill butter'd; The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. Aurora Raby, with her large dark eyes, Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. XXXII. But seeing him all cold and silent still, And every body wondering more or less, Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill? He started, and said, "Yes-no-rather-yes." The family physician had great skill, And, being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse and tell The cause; but Juan said, "he was quite well." XXXIII. "Quite well; yes—no.' These answers were mysterious, Something like illness of a sudden growth XXXIV. Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain`d; With some slight, light, hereditary twinges XXXV. Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd A few words of condolence on his state : "You look," quoth he, " as if you 'd had your rest To put the question with an air sedate, XXXVI. “Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar? 66 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 the 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, XXXVII. "The last time was-"-"I pray," said Adeline- To jest, you'll chuse some other theme just now, XXXVIII. "Jest!" quoth my lord, "Why, Adeline, you know She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon As touch'd, and plaintively began to play The air of ""T was a Friar of Orders Gray." XXXIX. "But add the words," cried Henry, "which you made, For Adeline is half a poetess," In courtesy their wish to see display'd By one three talents, for there were no lessThe 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 fix'd on the ground Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 1. Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, And expell'd the friars, one friar still 2. 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 remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, And he did not seem form'd of clay, For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, 3. 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, 't is said, And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death He comes-but not to grieve. 4. When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn, And when aught is to befal That ancient line, in the pale moon-shine He walks from hall to hall. His form you may trace, but not his face, But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, |