« PreviousContinue »
He did not guess—as they paused to hear,
How music's dying tone
With a magic all its own—
Was lingering in the porch,
With a sooty face and torch.
The Indian lover burst
From his lone cot by night;—
Oh! who shall quench the light I
The Indian left the shore; .
He heard the night wind sing,
Upon my Second's wing.
The blast came cold and damp,
When Ralph by holy hands was tied
For life to blooming Cis,
A fashionable Miss,
Proclaim'd the happy tale,
With pleasure—or with ale.
Oh, why should Hymen ever blight
The roses Cupid wore 1—
Where it was day before ?—
Or why should it be curs'd, In being, like my Second, long,
And louder than my First?
"You blackguard !" cries the rural wench,
My lady screams, "Ah, bete!"
And Cis in Billingsgate;
To end connubial strife—
And Ralph—to beat his wife!
A Templar kneel'd at a friar's knee;
He was a comely youth to see,
With curling locks and forehead -high,
And flushing cheek, and flashing eye;
And the monk was as jolly and large a man
As ever laid lip to a convent can,
Or called for a contribution;
A venal absolution.
"Oh, Father! in the dim twilight
"I rent my victim's coat of green;
"Though he was rich, and very old,
"My son! my son! for this thou hast done
The thunders of the Church were ended,
Row on, row on !—The Second is high