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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.
Say nought to him as he walks the hall,

And he'll say nought to you;
He sweeps along in his dusky pall,

As o'er the grass the dew.
Then Grammercy! for the Black Friar;

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul,
And whatsoe'er

may
be his

prayer, Let ours be for his soul.' This explanation does not calm Juan's perturbation ; his efforts to recover his self-possession during the day are in vain. At night he is sitting in his chamber listening, and expecting a second visitation :

And not in vain he listened-Hush! what's that?

I see- see !-Ah, no!-'is not yet ’tis-
Ye powers ! it is the-the-the-Pooh! the cat!

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his !
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,

Or tiptoe of an amatory miss,
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.
Again-what is't? The wind ? No, no—this time

It is the sable Friar as before,
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,

Or (as rhymes may be iu these days) much more.
Again, through shadows of the night sublime,

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore
The starry darkness round her like a girdle
Spangled with gems--the monk made his blood curdle.
A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,*

Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter,

See the account of the Ghost of the Uncle of Prince Charles of Saxony raised by Schroepfer Karl-Karl-was-walt wolt mich?"

Like showers which on the midnight gusta will pass,

Sounding like very supernatural water, Came over Juan's ear, which throbbed, alas !

For iminaterialism's a serious matter; So that even those, whose faith is the most great Iu souls immortal, shun them tête-à-têtc. Were his eyes open ?-Yes ! and his mouth too.

Surprise has this effect-to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which Eloquence slips through

As wide as if a long speech were to come. Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : His eyes were open, and (as was before Stated) his mouth. What opened uext ?-the door.

It opened with a most iufernal creak,

Like that of hell. Lasciate ogni speranza Voi che entrate!' The hinge seemed to speak,

Dreadful as Dante's rhyma, or this stanza ;
Or-but all words upon such themes are weak;

A single shade's sufficient to entrance a
Hero-for what is substance to a spirit ?
Or how is't matter treables to come near it?

The door flew wide, not swiftly--but, as fly

The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flightAnd then swuug back; nor close-but stood awry,

Half letting in long shadows on the light,
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burned high,

For he had two, both tolerably bright,
Aud in the door-way, darkening Darkness, stood
The sable Friar in his solemn hood.
Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken

The night before; but, being sick of shaking,
He frst inclined to think he had been mistaken;

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; His own internal ghost began to awaken

Within him, and to quell his corporal quakingHinting that soul and body, on the whole, Were odds against a disembodied soul.

And then bis dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce;

And he arose, advanced-the shade retreated; But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,

Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated,
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,

At whatsoever risk of being defeated :
The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, uniil
He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.
Juan put forth one arm- Eternal Powers!

It touched no soul, nor body, but the wall,
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers

Chequered with all the tracery of the hall;
He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers

When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal.
How odd a single hobgoblin's nonentity
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identily !*
But still the shade remained; the blue eyes glared,

And rather variably for stony death;
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared,

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straygling curl showed he had been fair-haired;

A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneathi,
Gleamed forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud
The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.
And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust
His other arm forth-Wonder

upon

wonder! It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust,

Wbich beat as if there was a warın heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,

That he had made at first a silly blunder,
And that in his confusion he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought.
The ghost, is ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul

As ever lurked beneath a holy hood :

Shadows, to-night,
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard
Than could the substance of ten thousand soldiers,' &c.

SHAKSPEARE's Richard III.

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole

Forth into something much like flesh and blood;
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,

And they revealed_alas! that e'er they should !
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,

The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Folke! Thus breaks off this singular poem, of which, taken as a whole, we cannot regret that we have no more.

CHAPTER XII.

TAE somewhat lengthened notice of Don Juan' into which we have thought it expedient to go has prevented us from observing strictly the order of time in which Lord Byron's poems were published : we shall now, however, resume the connexion of them, and proceed to speak of. Werner,' a tragedy which came out carly in the year 1822. It is founded upon one of the stories in Miss Lee's Canterbury Tales;' and, although the subject is deeply interesting, and even worthy of the honour which the labours of Lord Byron have conferred upon it, we cannot but wonder that so inventive a mind as his should have chosen to be indebted to any other writer for the plot of his tragedy, which without too great an effort he inight have fabricated for himself.

Miss Lee's tale is called · Kuitzner,' and is the longest and the best in the collection which we bave mentioned. It does not fall within our plau to allude more particularly to that tale, but justice to the authoress compels us to observe that it is highly creditable to her talents; and, although it is slight, and has rather an unfinished ap. pearance, it is equal, in all the characteristics of romantic narrative, to any similar production in this language.

Lord Byron dedicated his tragedy to the illustrious Göethe,' and did himself at least as much honour as he conferred upon that gifted and universal genius of Germany, by professing himself to be one of his humblest adınirers.' The trayedy which we proceed now to describe opens with a dialogue between Werner and his wife. He is at this time just recovered from a sickness which las seized him on a journey which he was making from Hamburgh towards Bohemia, and which compelled bim to stop on the Silesian frontier. He is accoinpanied by his wise, from a dialogue with whom we learn that Werner is an assumed name—that he who bears it is the disinherited son of a wealthy nobleman of Prague, and has been for years pining in want and misery, and hiding from a powerful enemy, who has wrongfully obtained possession of his patrimonial estates. He has had one son, who was educaled by Werner's father, but who has quitted the castle of his ancestors, and gone to seek his fortune no one knows wbither. Werner is now lodging in a deserted palace belonging to one of the Silesian princes, by permission of the Intendant. He learns that the Oder has overflowed, and that a nobleman whose impatience induced him to attempt the passage at a dangerous time has been carried away, and would have been drowned but for the assistance of some strangers. One of these strangers, Gabor, soon after enters. He is a blunt reckless soldier of fortune, and, as it turns out afterwards, partly soldier, partly bandit, but yet a bandit of the higher order; not by any means what Mr. Peachum calls a poor' petty larceny rascal,' but one who, although he scorns to commit a robbery in a house or under quiet commonplace circumstances, has no objection to fire a castle, or to cry • Stand!' to a true man. He learns that Werner is poor, and offers him bis purse; but he finds that he is no less proud than poor by his refusal to accept his offer. The rescued nobleman afterwards appears, and is recognised by Werner to be the Count Stralenheim, his old persecutor. The count- who, although he has not seen his victim for more than twenty years, suspects bis identity-resolves to make sure of it, and dispatches messengers to Hamburgh, as well to prove that, as to enable him, under some forged accusation, to get possession of Werner's person, when his death would soon be certain. The swelling of the water makes the passage of the messengers impossible; and things are in this state when the other stranger, who had been mainly instrumental in rescuing Count Stralenheim, reaches the castle. The count is prepossessed in favour of this person, whose youth and frank manners, prompt and active intrepidity, and strikingly handsome appearance, make him wish to engage him in his service. The youth accepts his offers, and, in an interview with Werner and his wife, he discovers his own father and mother. Before this, however, an incident has occurred which has a main operation in the business of the drama. The apartments inhabited by Werner are at one end of the old palace, while those occupied by the count are at the other extremity. Werner suspects but too truly the danger in which he is; but, poor, and almost wholly destitute, he has not the means of escaping

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