For having wickedly assail'd
The virtue of the sisters veil'd.
All sign the sentence, yet bemoan
The object it's inflicted on;
For pity 'tis, ere full age blooms,
To find depravity so foul,
Or that, beneath such beauteous plumes,
A debauchee's corrupted soul,
pagan manners of a Turk,
And tongue of infidel, should lurk.
In short, his old conductress bore
The banish'd culprit to the port;
But in returning, as before,
He never bit our sister for't;
For joyfully he left the shore,
And in a tilt-boat home return'd,
Where Nevers' nuns his absence mourn'd,
Such was the Iliad of his woes!
But ah! what unexpected mourning,
What clamour and despair arose,
When, to his former friends returning,
He shock'd them with a repetition
Of his late verbal acquisition!
What could the' afflicted sisters do?
With eyes in tears, and hearts in trouble,
Nine venerable nuns, for woe
Each in a veil funereal double,
Into the seat of judgment go,
Who, in their wrinkled fronts, resembled
Nine sages in a court assembled.
There, without hopes of happy ending,
Deprived of all to plead his cause
On whom there was the least depending,
Poor Ver-Vert sat, unskill'd in laws,
Chain'd to his
And stripp'd of glory and support.
To condemnation they proceed;
Two Sibyls sentence him to bleed;
'Twas voted by two sisters more,
Not so religiously inhuman,
To send him to that Indian shore
Unknown to any Christian woman,
That conscience might his bosom gore,
And yield him up a prey to death,
Where first, with Brachmen, he drew breath.
But the five others all according
In lesser punishments awarding,
For penance, two long months conclude
That he should pass in abstinence,
Three more in dismal solitude,
And four in speechless penitence;
During which season they preclude
Biscuits and fruits, the toilet's treasures,
Alcoves and walks, those convent pleasures.
Nor was this all: for, to complete
His miserable situation,
They gave him, in his sad retreat,
For jailor, guard, and conversation,
A stale lay sister, or much rather
An old veil'd ape, all skin and bone,
Or, cover'd o'er with wrinkled leather,
A walking female skeleton;
An object proper to fallen glory,
To cry aloud, memento mori.
Spite of this dragon's watchful soul,
The younger nuns would often go,
With looks of pity to condole:
Which e'en in exile soften'd woe.
Nay some, from morning prayers returning,
With nuts and candied almonds came;
But to a wretch in prison mourning
Weeds and ambrosia were the same.
Taught by misfortune's sound tuition,
Clothed with disgrace, and stung with pain,
Or sick of that old scarecrow vision,
The bird became in pure contrition
Acquainted with himself again :
Forgetting his beloved dragoons,
And quite according with the nuns
In one continued unison
Of air, of manners, and of tone;
No sleek prebendal priest could be
More thoroughly devout than he.
When this conversion was related,
The gray divan at once awarded
His banishment should be abated,
And further vengeance quite discarded.
There the bless'd day of his recall
Is annually a festival,
Whose silken moments, white and even,
Spun by the hands of smiling love,
Whilst all the' attendant fates approve,
To soft delights are ever given.
How short's the date of human pleasure!
How false of happiness the measure!
The dormitory, strew'd with flowers,
Short prayer, rejoicing, song, and feast,
Sweet tumult, freedom, thoughtless hours,
Their amiable zeal express'd,
And not a single sign of sorrow
The woes predicted of to-morrow.
But, O! what favours misapplied
Our holy sisterhood bestow'd!
From abstinence's shallow tide
Into a stream that overflow'd
With sweets, so long debarr'd from tasting,
Poor Ver-Vert too abruptly hasting
(His skin with sugar being wadded,
With liquid fires his entrails burn'd),
Beheld at once his roses faded,
And to funereal cypress turn'd.
The nuns endeavour'd, but in vain,
His fleeting spirit to detain:
But sweet excess had hasten'd fate;
And, whilst around the fair ones cried,
Of love a victim fortunate,
On pleasure's downy breast he died;
His dying words their bosoms fired,
And will for ever be admired.
Venus herself his eyelids closed,
And in Elysium placed his shade,
Where hero parrots safe reposed
In almond groves that never fade,
Near him, whose fate and fluent tongue
Corinna's lover wept and sung.
What tongue sufficiently can tell
How much bemoan'd our hero fell!
The nun, whose office 'twas, invited
The bearers to the' illustrious dead;
And letters circular indited,
In which this mournful tale I read.
But, to transmit his image down
To generations yet unknown,
A painter, who each beauty knew,
His portraiture from nature drew;
And many a hand, guided by love,
O'er the stretch'd sampler's canvass plain,
In broidery's various colours strove
To raise his form to life again;
Whilst grief, to' assist each artist, came
And painted tears around the frame.
All rites funereal they bestow'd,
Which erst to birds of high renown
The band of Helicon allow'd,
When from the body life was flown.
Beneath a verdant myrtle's shade,
Which o'er the mausoleum spread,
A small sarcophagus was laid,
To keep the ashes of the dead.
On porphyry graved in characters
Of gold, with sculptured garlands graced,
These lines, exciting pity's tears,
Our convent Artemisias placed :
Ye novice nuns, who to this grove repair,
To chat by stealth, unawed by age's frown;
Your tongues one moment, if you can, forbear,
Till the sad tale of our affliction 's known.
If 'tis too much that organ to restrain,
Use it to speak what anguish death imparts:
One line this cause for sorrow will explain;
Here Ver-Vert lies; and here lie all our hearts."
"Tis said however (to pursue
My story but a word or two)
The soul of Ver-Vert is not pent
Within the' aforesaid monument,
But, by permission of the fates,
Some holy sister animates;
And will in transmigration run
From time to time, from nun to nun,
Transmitting to all ages hence
In them his deathless eloquence.
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