"O lady, he is dead and gone, Lady, he 's dead and gone! At his head a green grass 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. "Here bore him barefaced on his bier "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth "O, weep not, lady, weep not so! "O, do not, do not, holy friar, "And now, alas! for thy sad loss 266 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. "Weep no more, lady, weep no more; For violets plucked the sweetest showers "Our joys as winged dreams do fly; "O, say not so, thou holy friar; I pray thee, say not so! For since my truelove died for me, 66 Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never." "Now say not so, thou holy friar, My love he had the truest heart; "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." "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, No drizzly rain that falls on me "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, "Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought, And here, amid these lonely walls, “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, 268 TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS.— Milton. WHEN I consider how my light is spent TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL 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, 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 work 1 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, 'tis ever thus, with sounds toc 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, — 't is ever thus, with all that 's best below, 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. |