The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook. active 19th century Novice
"Oh, never mind;
If home with me you'll go,
With pleasure I will lend you all
You want; my stock's by no means small—
Not very modern though.
And, p'rhaps, if I, a stranger, may
Request a boon, as such a way
From home you've rambled out,
I should feel overjoyed if you
Would stay and let your palate too
Be tickled by my trout.
Except my housekeeper there's none,
And she will pardon what I've done,
So pray do not refuse."
I, pondering for a moment, thought,
When he a fresh inducement brought
Which drowned my frail excuse.
"And afterwards I'll take you out
Where you may catch as fine a trout
As ever bit at hook."
And, truly, I sharp hunger felt,
And as three miles from where I dwelt
I was, I gladly took
Him at his word, and pleased him quite
By thus accepting his invite.
He seized my hand and twice it shook,
And thanking me with cordial look,
He smiling said, "For you I feel
A friendship, sir, I'll not conceal.
You cause my fancies back to fly
To youth's bright days, when fearless I,
Like you, would dash through passes where
A slip had sent me past all care;
But now those joyous moments seem
Like wanderings in a pleasant dream,
And never will return, I fear.
But, see, my garden-gate is here."
He led the way, with fish in hand;
We neared the house, perhaps not grand
In point of size, yet truly there
Resided Elegance, and Care
Expended on each part had been:
No imperfections could be seen,
For Order reigned throughout the place,
Assisted by her sister Grace.
The walls were built of reddish brick,
And massive as a house were thick,
That meant to combat with old Time,
For still they seemed now in their prime.
Though cent'ries two past them had strayed
They scarce had an impression made.
A carved verandah ran before
The front, and arched above the door
Arose, where flowers twined around
Their sweetness, and a dwelling found.
"We're rather homely folks," said he,
"My housekeeper and I: we see
And hear but little of the news
And fashions which you moderns use,
But sure I am you will excuse
Our queerness, which may chance amuse."
With this we reached the hall, whose floor
Was paved with stone. He moved before,
And throwing wide an open door,
He bade me enter and wage war
With hunger a few moments more,
The while he after the fishes saw.
The house was large, and opened out
Upon a lawn, where roamed about
A gentle fawn, who darted through
The casement, but as quick withdrew,—
He missed the hand that used to feed,
So backward flew with rapid speed.
The floor of polished oak was made,
O'er which a carpet rich was laid.
The furniture was carved antique;
And had it been allowed to speak,
Might tales of stirring int'rest tell
Of what in ancient times befell:
But that which most attracted me
Seemed younger far than all to be,
The portrait of a lady fair
As ever breathed the vital air,
Or drove a lover to despair,
Or claimed in any mischief share;—
As beautiful a face was there
As poet's quill did e'er compare
With aught above the earth that grows;
Than even winter's drifting snows,
Her neck was white, while dark her eyes
As night when moonbeams shun the skies;
Her glossy locks down trickling,
Were blacker than the raven's wing,
While fresh-born pearls might even die with grief,
Out-rivalled by her more transparent teeth.
The rosy, tint-like blushes on her cheek,
Would puzzle Language, if he truth must speak.
In fact, I saw the portrait was not real,—
A painter's fancy, beautiful, ideal.
Yet still, enraptured, in a pensive mood,
Entranced I gazed, more pleased the more I viewed,
When, unperceived, beside me stood my host,
Who like myself in wand'ring thought seemed lost.
He sighed; I turned, and on his cheek beheld
A falling tear his mem'ry's grief impelled:
But soon above it rose a cheerful smile,
And Joy seemed anxious Sorrow to beguile.
"What form! what grace!" half questioning, said I,
"No mortal face such beauty could supply?"
"But yet a fairer one I've seen," said he.
"Then surely she th' original must be?"
"Not her, I mean; the grave has closed above
That beauteous form, which seeing was to love:
My housekeeper I meant,—you smile!" said he,
"I own that I may not impartial be;
But still I hope you will not seek her heart,
For it would kill me were we forced to part:
Come, promise