Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XVI

  (Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow,
And from its context thought she could divine
  Connexions stronger then he chose to avow
With this same legend) — 'if you but design
  To jest, you 'll choose some other theme just now,
Because the present tale has oft been told,
And is not much improved by growing old.'

'Jest!' quoth Milor; 'why, Adeline, you know
  That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon —
  But, come, I 'll set your story to a tune.'
Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow,
  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.'

'But add the words,' cried Henry, 'which you made;
  For Adeline is half a poetess,'
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said.
  Of course the others could not but express
In courtesy their wish to see display'd
  By one three talents, for there were no less —
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once
Could hardly be united by a dunce.

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
At first, then kindling into animation,
  Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound,
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.

     Beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
       Who sitteth by Norman stone,
     For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
       And his mass of the days that are gone.
     When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
       Made Norman Church his prey,
     And expell'd the friars, one friar still
       Would not be driven away.

     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
       He abideth night and day.
     By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said,
       He flits on the bridal eve;
     And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death
       He comes — but not to grieve.

     When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn,
       And when aught is to befall
     That ancient line, in the "we moonshine
       He walks from hall to hall.
     His form you may trace, but not his face,
       'T is shadow'd by his cowl;
     But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,
       And they seem of a parted soul.

     But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
       He still retains his sway,
     For he is yet the church's heir
       Whoever may be the lay.
     Amundeville is lord by day,
       But the monk is lord by night;
     Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal
       To question that friar's right.

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