The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook. active 19th century Novice
not fall in love,"
He joking said, and cast his eyes above.
I gave my word, though really I must own
On first beholding I was near o'erthrown,
And nigh had fallen into Cupid's snare,
For such a sight I did but half prepare.
A step approached, he left that toe to seek,
A smacking kiss salutes his aged cheek,
Then, whisp'ring low of me, I heard them speak,
And felt uncertain what I ought to do.
When not long after they both entered through
The half-closed door my back was turned unto.
"His housekeeper," thinks I: "I'll not look round
Until he speak, but seem in thought profound,
Still gazing on that face for charms renowned."
"My niece, my friend." I introduced am now,
And so, perforce, must turn me round and bow.
When, like Miss Lalla Rookh,
In Moore's delightful book
(Who found her husband was Young What's-his-name),
I with amazement found
(When I had gazed around)
The housekeeper and portrait were the same.
The night-dark orbs, which radiant smiles bedeck
(Like sunbeams dancing on the ruffled wave),
The pearly teeth, the snowy, swan-like neck,
The roseate hue which health unsparing gave,
The velvet cheek, and deepened on the lips
(Like double poppies whence the wise bee sips
Entrancing sweets), and ev'ry other charm
That tongue has told, or fancy could describe,
In both appeared—yea, which had won the palm
In beauty's flower-show (without a bribe)
I cannot tell, but let the living form
But speak a word, and ev'ry doubt is gone.
His niece, he said; his sister's child is she?
No wonder then their faces well agree.
But still I gave him a reproving look,
At which he smiled, while in his arm he took
The portrait's twin, and bid me follow where
The well-dressed trout for our repast prepare.
The meal concluded, out we went
With tackle which he kindly lent,
And reached a lonely spot,
Where, at the swarms of glittering flies,
The speckled trout enraptured rise,
Like lightning, or a shot;
And soon a splendid pair I caught,
As fine as I had seen, methought,
Though I've tried lots of places.
He calls: "What luck, my friend?" says he.
"A brace!" "The same have favoured me—
So that's a pair of braces;
And if the sun will but lie hid
The fleecy, flutt'ring clouds amid,
For two short hours more
(Unless your arm be wearied out),
We'll line the bank with sparkling trout,
In number twice a score."
I said before, I anxious felt to learn
The old man's history,
There seemed some mystery;
For he from grave to gay, and back, would turn
So very fast,
That scarcely past
The witty jest had flown, before a sigh
Burst forth, and buried deep he long would lie
In thought;
And nought
Would rouse him up, till some one near him spoke,
And then some anecdote or lively joke
Appeared the offspring of his lethargy.
In vain the fish, with wistful eye,
Might long to seize his tempting fly,
For rod and line unheeded lie
Quite harmless on the shore.—
At breakfast also, by the bye,
The trout got cold, or very nigh,
Before he asked if I would try
Another mouthful more.
I asked his name, and, as I thought,
My voice him to remembrance brought;
"The Doctor I am called," said he;
"Though years have passed since I a fee
Have taken for my skill.
My name is Hall, so—Doctor Hall
Will kill or cure all folks who call,
With bleeding, draught, or pill.
My niece the nasty stuff prepares,
And as she many visits shares,
As doctor's boy, she will
Oft roam with basket on her arm,
From hut to cot, from house to farm,
With med'cine all to fill;
While many a needy child displays
Her needlework, which snugly lays
Beneath the physics, while she strays,
Unseen her gifts to share.
It is not I her fame should blaze,
But still my tongue unbid will praise
A life she spends in seeking ways
To cure all human care."
My name then in return I gave,
And chanced to say at times
My business was for fame and gold
To dress my thoughts in rhymes.
"You don't say so!" with joy, said he.
"You're just the man I've longed to see
For many years, but never yet
Have one of your profession met.
I have at home a curious tale,—
A legend, which, I much bewail,
Has been by time or mice defaced,
So much that parts are scarcely traced:
My wish has been, a man to find
Whose taste to poetry inclined,
Who kindly would the remnants read
And fill in where the sense