"Thy years are young, thy face is fair,
Thy wits are weak, thy thoughts are green;
Time hath not given thee leave as yet,
For to commit so great a sin."
Yes, herdsman, yes, so wouldst thou say,
If thou knewest so much as I;
My wits, and thoughts, and all the rest,
Have well deserved for to die.
I am not what I seem to be,
My clothes and sex do differ far-
I am a woman, woe is me!
Born to grief and irksome care.
For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill:
And though my tears will not avail,
Most dearly I bewail him still.
He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere could be;
Of comely mien and shape he was,
And tenderly he loved me.
When thus I saw he loved me well,
I grew so proud his pain to see,
That I, who did not know myself,
Thought scorn of such a youth as he ;
And grew so coy and nice to please,
As woman's looks are often so,
He might not kiss nor hand, forsooth,
Unless I willed him so to do.
Thus being wearied with delays
To see I pitied not his grief,
He got him to a secret place,
And there he died without relief.
And for his sake these weeds I wear,
And sacrifice my tender age; And every day I'll beg my bread, To undergo this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I fast and pray,
And ever will do till I die;
And get me to some secret place,
For so did he, and so will I.
Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,
But keep my secrets I thee pray,
Unto the town of Walsingham
Show me the right and ready way. "Now go thy ways, and God before!
For he must ever guide thee still:
Turn down that dale, the right hand path,
And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well!"
She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace; And the blackest discontents To be pleasing ornaments. In my former days of bliss, Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some invention draw: And raise pleasure to her height, Through the meanest object's sight; By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling; By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Than all nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness;
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That those hanging vaults have made,
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss,
Over-grown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light,
More to terror than delight.
This my chamber of neglect,
Walled about with disrespect,
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair;
She hath taught me, by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesie, thou sweetest content
That ever Heaven to mortals lent:
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorn,
That to nought but earth are born:
Let my life no longer be,
Than I am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call it madness,
Let me never taste of sadness,
If I love not thy maddest fits
Above all their greatest wits.
And though some too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly :
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.
FROM yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed:
First through the deep and warm and secret glens,
Through the pale-glimmering privet-scented lane,
And through those alders by the river-side:
Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep
Have hollowed out beneath their hawthorn shade.
But ah! look yonder! see a misty tide
Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove,
Enwrap the gay white mansion, sap its sides
Until they sink and melt away like chalk;
Now it comes down against our village-tower,
Covers its base, floats o'er its arches, tears
The clinging ivy from the battlements,
Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone,
(All one vast ocean,) and goes swelling on
In slow and silent, dim and deepening waves.
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