But nights he very seldom pass'd
With those whom years and prudence bless'd,
The plain neat room was more his taste
Of some young damsel not profess'd;
This nicety at board and bed
Show'd he was nobly born and bred.
When the young female anchorite,
Whom all the rest with envy view'd,
Had fix'd him for the coming night,
Perch'd on her Agnus-box he stood,
Silent in undisturb'd repose
Till Venus' warning star arose:
And when at morn the pious maid
Her toilet's mysteries display'd,
He freely saw whate'er was done;
say the toilet, for I've read
(But speak it in a lower tone),
That virgins in a cloister bred
Their looks and languishings review
In mirrors, to their eyes as true
As those that serve to show the faces
Of dames who flaunt in gems and laces.
For as in city or at court
Some certain taste or mode prevails,
There is among the godly sort
A taste in putting on their veils;
There is an art to fold with grace,
Round a young vestal's blooming face,
Plain crape, or other simple stuff,
With happy negligence enough.
Often the sportive loves in swarms,
Which to the monasteries repair,
Spread o'er the holy fillets charms,
And tie them with a killing air;
In short, the nuns are never seen
In parlour or at grate below,
Ere at the lookingglass they've been
To steal a decent glance or so.
This softly whisper'd, friends between,
Further digression we adjourn,
And to our hero now return.
Safe in this unmolested scene
Ver-Vert, amidst a life of bliss,
Unrival'd reign'd on every part;
Her slighted sparrows took amiss
This change in sister Thecla's heart;
Four finches through mere rage expired,
At his advancement mortified;
And two grimalkins, late admired,
With envy languish'd, droop'd, and died.
In days like these of joy and love,
Who would have thought such tender cares
To form his youthful mind should prove,
Through fortune's spite, destructive snares?
Or that an adverse time should come
When this same idol of their hearts
Should stand the mark, by cruel doom,
Of horror's most envenom'd darts?
But stop, my muse, forbid to flow
The tears arising from the sight
Of such an unexpected woe,
Too bitter fruit, alas! to grow
From the soft root of dear delight.
IN such a school a bird of sense
Would soon acquire, it is confess'd,
The gift of copious eloquence;
For, save his meals and hours of rest,
His tongue was always occupied:
And no good treatise could excel,
In phrases ready cut and dried,
His doctrines about living well.
He was not like those parrots rude
Whom, dangling in a public cage,
The common manners of the age
Have render'd conversably lewd;
Who, doctor'd by the worldly tribe,
With frail concupiscence endued,
Each human vanity describe.
Our Ver-Vert was a saint in grain,
A soul with innocency fraught,
Who never utter'd word profane,
Who never had immodest thought:
But in the room of ribald wit
Each mystic colloquy he knew,
And many a text in holy writ,
With prayers and collects not a few;
Could psalms and canticles repeat,
And benedicite complete;
He could petition Heaven for grace
With sanctimonious voice and eyes,
And at a proper time and place
Religiously soliloquize. \
Each help he had in this learn'd college
That could conduce to sacred knowledge:
For many virgins had retreated,
Through grace, to this religious fold,
Who, word for word, by rote repeated
Each Christmas carol, new and old.
From frequent lessons every day
The scholar grew as learn'd as they;
Their very tone of speaking too
In pious drawlings he express'd,
The same religious sighs he drew
Deep heaving from the godly breast,
And languid notes in which these doves
Mournfully chant their mystic loves:
In short, the bird perform'd his part
In all the psalmodizing art.
Such merit could not be confined Within a cloister's narrow bound, But flew, for fame is swift as wind, The neighbouring territories round; Through Nevers' town, from morn to night, Scarce other talk was heard,
But of discourses exquisite
Betwixt the nuns and Indian bird;
And e'en from Moulins numbers came
To witness to the truth of fame.
Ver-Vert, the parlour's boasted glory,
Whilst all that came were told his story,
Perch'd proud upon his favourite stand,
Sister Melania's ivory hand,
Who pointed out each excellence
Of mind or body he possess'd,
His sweet mild temper, polish'd sense,
And various colours on his breast,
When his engaging aspect won
Each visitor he look'd upon:
But beauty the most exquisite
Was, in our tender proselyte,
The least his qualities among,
For all forgot his feathery pride,
And every outward charm beside,
The moment that they heard his tongue.
With various righteous graces fill'd,
By the good sisterhood instill'd,
The' illustrious bird his speech began;
At every turn illusions new,
Conceptions fine, and doctrines true,
In streams of honied language ran.
But what was singularly new,
In this uncommon gift of speech,
And scarce will be reputed true,
Not any whilst they heard him preach,
Did ever feel (his powers were such)
Ecclesiastic lethargy,
From soporific sanctity:
What orator can boast as much?
Much was he praised, and much caress'd,
Whilst he familiarized to fame,
Convinced 'twas only a mere name,
His head on his projected breast
With priestly gentleness reclined,
And always modestly express'd
The inward triumph of his mind.
When he had utter'd to the crowd
His treasured scientific store,
He mutter'd something not aloud,
And sunk in cadence more and more,
Till, with an aspect sanctified,
At last in silence down he sat,
And left his audience edified
On what had pass'd to ruminate.
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