Here bore him barefac'd on his bier And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! 0 weep not, lady, weep not so; O do not, do not, holy friar, And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wish'd to live, Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain : For, violets pluck'd the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again, Our joys as winged dreams do fly, O say not so, thou holy friar; For since my true love died for me, And will he ne'er 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, Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, For young men ever 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 : O he was ever true! And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, 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 the cold wind, 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, Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, Thy own true love appears. gray Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love But haply for my year of grace* Might I still hope to win thy love, Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart ; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part. THE HERMIT. [By Goldsmith.] TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, * The year of probation, or noviciate. For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go. Forbear, my son, the hermit cries, Here to the houseless child of want And tho' my portion is but scant, Then turn to-night, and freely share No flocks that range the valley free, But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. |