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66

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
Thy sorrow is in vain;

For violets plucked the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow again.

"Our joys as winged dreams do fly;
Why, then, should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past."

"O, say not so, thou holy friar;

I

pray thee, say not so!

For since my truelove died for me,
'T is meet my tears should flow."

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Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never."

"Now say not so, thou holy friar,
I pray thee, say not so;

My love he had the truest heart;

O, he was ever true!

"And art thou dead, thou much loved youth?

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell, home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my truelove's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay ;

And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf
That wraps his breathless clay."

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

"Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile

Beneath this cloister wall;

The cold wind through the hawthorn blows,
And drizzly rain doth fall."

"O, stay me not, thou holy friar,
O, stay me not, I pray!

No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray,
Thy own truelove appears!

"Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought,

And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.

"But haply, for my year of

Is not yet passed away,

grace

Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;

For since I've found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part."

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268

TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY.

SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. - Milton.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless (though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide),
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY.—
Mrs. Southey.

'Tis ever thus, - 't is ever thus, when Hope hath built a bower

Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower,

To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, A whirlwind from the desert comes, and "all is in the dust."

'Tis ever thus,

't is ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings

With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,

TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY.

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That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.

'T is ever thus, - 't is ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss,

With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world

as this;

One moment round about us their angel lightnings

play,

Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath passed away.

'Tis ever thus, 't is ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth, —

Seraphic sounds, that float away (borne heavenward) in their birth;

The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute.

't is ever thus, with all that 's best

The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go; The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock,

The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock.

"T is ever thus,

- 't is ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair,

Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly creatures bear;

A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of

love,

Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.

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EMPLOYMENT.

EMPLOYMENT.— George Herbert.

IF, as a flower doth spread and die,
Thou wouldst extend me to some good,
Before I were by frost's extremity
Nipt in the bud,

The sweetness and the praise were thine;
But the extension and the room,

Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine
At thy great doom.

For as thou dost impart thy grace,
The greater shall our glory be.

The measure of our joys is in this place,
The stuff with thee.

Let me not languish, then, and spend
A life as barren to thy praise

As is the dust, to which that life doth tend,
But with delays.

All things are busy; only I

Neither bring honey with the bees, Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry To water these.

I am no link of thy great chain, But all my company is as a weed. Lord, place me in thy concert, give one strain To my poor reed.