Part 2

"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.

* * * * *

THE FRIAR.

_CHAPTER THE FIRST._

In a shady nook, with his learned book, The friar sat with a sanctified look; By his side was rod that was shaped like a crook, Tied to which was a line and a well-baited hook Which he dipped in the stream of a rippling brook. Now this friar, no doubt, is a lover of trout, For he chuckles with joy as he 's pulling them out; For this savoury fish makes a delicate dish, As nice as the greatest of monarchs could wish. But there 's one thing he fears-- It may come to the ears Of the Abbot severe, Who would make him pay dear For thus giving way to his base appetite! When he knows very well He should be in his cell, And not thus be staying The forest away in, In the hope that a nibble may end in a bite. For this Abbot was such a strict disciplinarian That roast beef he scorned as the foulest of carrion. His food was the coarsest of bread, and boil'd rice, And half-dirty water, which could not be nice. And had he but known that the friar ate trout, Would have made a most terrible riot and rout; And would not have been quiet Till he'd alter'd his diet, And promised he'd never go angling more. Which to one of his taste, you may be pretty sure, Would have been a great bother, a plague, and a bore.

'T was a morning in May, And a beautiful day, The little cock sparrows were chirping away, When the friar, awoke by the birds or the fleas, Quickly rose, gave a yawn, and a cough and a sneeze, And threw himself into his clothes with great ease. But as he was dressing in very great haste, Much time spent in washing he thought would be waste; So a lick and a promise was just to his taste. For he meant to have rose Ere the first of the crows From under her snug wing had popped out her nose. But to finish a dream he had slumb'ring kept, And thus, long past the hour he intended, had slept. So now from his chamber with speed forth he crept, And bent his course the forest through, Whose branches, spangled o'er with dew, Being shook, soon made him sparkle too. But nought would he heed were he wet to the skin; It is not for his outside he cares, but his in; And he thinks of the feast he shall have with a grin As he reaches the spot in the thick forest where The trees had been cut down and left a place bare. And soon his rod finds, which with excellent care He had hidden, lest others the sport too might share. As I told you before, by his side was a book; But not that within it he e'er wished to look, For his mind was in truth at the point of his hook. But, to form an excuse, It might be of great use If any should happen that part by to stray; For it then would appear Unto them very clear, He to study had fled from the world far away. Now, lest some fair reader be wishing to hear How he got his fish dress'd, I will pause awhile here And explain how it was, though it cause slight delay; Still in hopes for your patience my tale may repay. At the back of the wood was a tumble-down dwelling, But when 'twas erected is now long past telling; Its roof might with straw, perchance, once have been thatched, Though now from the rafters 'twas near all detached. But heather and mud were in place substituted, Which seemed with the rest of the mansion well suited. For the windows, with rags stopped to keep out the rain, Though admitting rheumatics, yet owned not a pane; While the door from its hinges had gone to supply A trough for the lady who lived in the sty. Then as to the garden, 'twas quite a disgrace, You never beheld such a wild-looking place. The grass than the flowers had grown somewhat higher, Entangled with bushes of bramble and brier. The trees and the bushes were so much neglected That fruit was ne'er looked for, as 'twas not expected. The hedges, so fine once, had lost all their beauty, And look'd like policemen forgetting their duty; Who would not take even the trouble to keep Away from the garden the cows and the sheep, Which over or under would manage to creep, T' enjoy 'mid the flowers a sweet fragrant sleep.

Now the Queen of this mansion was Widow O'Neal, A lady of Irish extraction; Who often procured our good friar a meal, Which gave him supreme satisfaction. For though she a rum 'un might seem to the look, She was without doubt a most excellent cook; And could give fish and game such a delicate taste, That your platter you'd empty in double-quick haste, Nor a scrap, nor a morsel would e'er chance to waste. Now of children this widow had four, As handsome a set as you anywhere saw, Although you the country have travelled right o'er. The eldest, her pet, was a beautiful boy, The pride of his mother, her treasure, her joy; Whose light hair crept over his head like a mat, And boasted the 'nomen of "Clever Young Pat." For he could milk cows, and was once known to try To milk the old sow, but, alas! found her dry, So left her in future at rest in her sty. For birds' nests Pat climbed up the tallest of trees-- The greater the danger the more it would please. A stranger to fear as to sorrow was he, For nothing delighted his heart like a spree; And often, and dearly, his neighbours had rued The spirits of fun which young Patrick pursued. Then in racing he'd beat all competitors hollow, And would leave them behind at a distance to follow. For he had a knack, Without e'er a whack,-- As he stuck tight as wax to the animal's back-- To make it proceed With such rapid speed That you'd doubt if 'twas really a jackass indeed.

The next two were daughters, and might be called fair, For brightly would glitter their dark glossy hair, As bandless and free, by no fetters confined (Except when a wild flower its sweetness entwined), 'Twas wafted about by the impudent wind. Then their eyes, black as sloes, with a sweet sunny smile, Would surely your thoughts for a moment beguile, And cause you, though hurried, to tarry awhile To ask the best way to the neighbouring town, Or frame some excuse from your horse to get down Just to look at the view from a picturesque stile Of these two lovely daughters of Erin's green isle.