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In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth or power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could not of purity display
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine :
Their charins were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;

And while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain:

Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride,
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault!
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

And there forlorn despairing hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turned to chide,'Twas Edwin's self that prest.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear;
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee!

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life, my all that's mine?

No, never, from this hour, to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."



BORN at Bridgnorth, where his father was a grocer. Educated at Christ Church, Oxford, with a view to taking holy orders. Appointed domestic chaplain to the Duke of Northumberland ; subsequently was made Dean of Carlisle, and finally Bishop of Dromore (Ireland), at the palace of which he died in 1811. Percy is mainly celebrated for a collection of old English ballads which he published in 1765, under the title of Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.


It was a friar of orders gray
Walked forth to tell his beads;
And he met with a lady fair
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true-love thou didst see."

"And how should I know your true love From many another one?" "Oh, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon.

But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled,
And eyes of lovely blue."

"O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a greengrass turf,
And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloisters long
He languished, and he died
Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

They bore him barefaced on his bier,
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedewed his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth?
And art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone!"


Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so;
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek."

"Oh, do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy sad loss
I'll ever weep and sigh ;
For thee I only wished to live,
For thee I wish to die."

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

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

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

"Oh, say not so, thou holy friar, pray thee say not so;


For since my true-love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he never come again?
Will he ne'er come again ?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose;
The comeliest youth was he;
But he is dead and laid in his grave ;
Alas, and woe is me!"

Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more;
Men were deceivers ever;

One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.


Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men e'er were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy."

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

My love he had the truest heart,
Oh, 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 true-love's grave
My weary limbs I'll lay,

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

"Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall;

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

"Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar
Oh, 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
Thy own true love 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 grace
Is not yet passed away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

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