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In humble, simplest habit clad,
The blossom opening to the day,
The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
For still I tried each fickle art,
And while his passion touched my heart,
Till quite dejected with my scorn,
But mine the sorrow, mine the fault!
And there forlorn despairing hid,
"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;
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
No, never, from this hour, to part,
THOMAS PERCY, D.D.
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.
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
It was a friar of orders gray
"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
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,
"O lady, he is dead and gone!
Within these holy cloisters long
And 'plaining of her pride.
They bore him barefaced on his bier,
"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth?
Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so;
"Oh, do not, do not, holy friar,
And now, alas! for thy sad loss
"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,
"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?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
His cheek was redder than the rose;
Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more;
One foot on sea and one on land,
Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
"Now say not so, thou holy friar,
My love he had the truest heart,
And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth?
But first upon my true-love's grave
And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf
"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
"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,
But haply, for my year of grace