Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; However dear or cherish'd in their day; At length those eyes, which they would fain be weanin And then a slave bethought her of a harp; On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-scut And he began a long low island song Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection: on her flash'd the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, Short solace, vain relief!-thought came too quick, Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense; Avail'd for either; neither change of place, Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last, Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay : Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, No stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow sca's, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. THE BLACK FRIAR. BEWARE! beware! of the Black Friar, For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, And expell'd the friars, one friar still 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, Though he is not seen by day. And whether for good, or whether for ill, It is not mine to say; But still with the house of Amundeville By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death When an heir is born, he's heard to mourn, That ancient line, in the pale moonshine His form you may trace, but not his face, 'Tis shadow'd by his cowl: But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, But beware! beware! of the Black Friar, But the monk is lord by night; Say nought to him as he walks the hall, Then grammercy! for the Black Friar; NORMAN OR NEWSTEAD ABBEY. To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,- It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke The branching stag swept down with all his herd, Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed; Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, Quiet-sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd, Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw. A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd-a loss to art: The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice-as tell The annals of full many a line undone,The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign. But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, With her Sou in her bless'd arms, look'd round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd; She made the earth below seem holy ground. This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, But in the noontide of the moon, and when Through the huge arch, which soars and sings again. Back to the night wind by the waterfall, Others, that some original shape, or form Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower; Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaintStrange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, The mansion's self was vast and venerable, An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd Yet left a grand impression on the mind, At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. JULIA'S PORTRAIT. Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) A something in them which was not desire, Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth; As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, |