Frail mortals, alas, are so weak!"---- Much more he had said, but a touch on the shoulder Made the blood through each vein run more sluggish and colder. But starting and turning with well-feigned surprise, Saw reflected his face in the Abbot's dark eyes. Then a bow, long and low, to his rev'rence he made-- A rev'rence his rev'rence would always have paid; For deep in his bosom he cherished the hope, That, some day or other, they would make him the Pope. Now the Abbot was tall, and so terribly thin, That victuals scarce ever, you'd think, were asked in To fill up the gap 'twixt the bones and the skin. The little of hair he had left on his crown Was a dingy short circle of snuff-colour'd brown, Which straight as the ribs of umbrella hung down. His teeth good as new were, for, little in use, They could not well plead that old-fashioned excuse Of aching, because they're decayed or grown loose. But his eye was his pride--'twas a regular piercer, Than even a Cyclops it made him look fiercer; For it stared every way At the same time of day, Nor yet from yourself for a moment would stray. Now of his left optic I've heard, and don't doubt it, He really had seen, and looked better without it; For, besides being not half so big as the other, It would squint, blink, and wink at its handsome twin brother. But the mind, after all, is the part of the man Which beauty should live in--deny it who can. While the face serves alone for an index to tell The force of the passions which inwardly dwell. When all's fair within, it will turn to a smile; When vexed, it will change to a frown. If angry, most like 'twill be stormy awhile; When sad, fast the rain will come down. But to rambling a truce, I the reins have let loose, But my spirited muse I to back must induce. For all I would say is, an ugly exterior Is often the fate of a mind that's superior. Now the Abbot was one whose mind was his forte; he Could never remember a thing he'd done naughty. His life would, he said, bear the strictest inspection-- It never could yield an unpleasant reflection, Because he had brought it so near to perfection. In languages dead he was learned and skilful; His head with quotations, in fact, seemed so filled full That when condescending he happened to speak, You would nearly be smothered with Latin and Greek. But as my fair readers may chance to know neither, I will not here tax their sweet patience with either. Not because when I was a young one at school I neglected declension, and grammar, and rule; But just for this reason, I would not perplex A specimen fair of the feminine sex, Who, not fond of skipping, might feel rather vexed If forced to leap over some old defunct text. [Illustration: "What dost thou here, Peter?"]