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Fear oftentimes restraineth words,
But makes not thoughts to cease;

And he speaks best, that hath the skill
When for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death;
Our kinsmen at the grave ;
But virtues of the mind unto
The heavens with us we have.
Wherefore, for virtue’s sake
I can be well content
The sweetest time of all my life
To deem in thinking spent.


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 truelove you did see.”

“And how should I your truelove know
From many another one P’”

“O, 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 !

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
Six proper youths and tall;

And many a tear bedeved his grave
Within yon kirkyard wall.”

“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth 2
And art thou dead and gone 2

And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone !”

“O, weep not, lady, weep not sol
Some ghostly comfort seek;

Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedev thy cheek.”

“O, 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 evermore weep and sigh;

For thee I only wished to live,
For thee I wished to die.”


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

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

“Our joys as winged dreams do fly;
Why, then, should sorrow last?

Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past.”

“O, say not so, thou holy friar;
I pray thee, say not so :

For since my truelove died for me,
'T is meet my tears should flow.”

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

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

“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 loved youth 2
And didst thou die for me 2

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,
O, 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 gray,
Thy own truelove 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.”

“Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart; -

For since I’ve found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.”


SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. —JMilton. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless (though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide), “Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?” I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.”


'T is 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,

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