Published by J. Robins and Co. London, December 24, 1824.

But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.
And did he see this? or was it a vapour?

Once, twice, thrice passed, repassed-the thing of air,
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other place;
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,

Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base
As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face;
He taxed his tongue for words, which were not granted,
To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

The third time, after a still longer pause,

The shadow passed away-but where? the hall.
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause
To think his vanishing unnatural :

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws
Of physics, bodies whether short or tall
Might come or go; but Juan could not state

Through which the spectre seemed to evaporate.

Juan, frightened out of his wits, returns to his bed; but his attempis to sleep are all in vain. The morning finds him pale and distrait. The singularity of his appearance excites great curiosity at the breakfast table, and Lady Amandeville asks him if he has seen the ghost of the Friar. He asks what she means, and is told that, by an old legend connected with the family history, it is said that a Black Friar haunts the castle-but take the answer in Lord Henry's words: >

'Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar—

The spirit of these walls ?' In truth not I.'

Why Fame-but Fame you know's sometimes a liar

Tells an odd story, of which by-the-by:

Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer,
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye

For such sights, though the tale is half believed,

The Friar of late has not been oft perceived.

At the request of the peer his lovely consort sings, accompanying herself on her harp, a ballad relating to this legend, which is set to the air It was a Friar of Orders Grey :'

After some fascinating hesitation

The charming of these charmers, who seem bound,

I can't tell why, to this dissimulation-
Fair Adeline, with eyes fixed 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 Norınan 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 expelled 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 remained, unchased, unchained,

And he did not seem formed 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 to the house of Amundeville

He abideth night and day.

By the marriage bed of their lords, 'tis said,

He flits on the bridal eve;

And 'tis 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 pale moonshine

He walks from hall to hall.

His form you may trace, but not his face

'Tis shadowed 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.

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-I see !-Ah, no!-'tis 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 in 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?'