In humble, simplest habit clad, The blossom opening to the day, To emulate his mind. 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! I'll seek the solitude he sought, 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; My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Thus let me hold thee to my heart, No, never, from this hour, to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart 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 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 true-love thou didst see." "And how should I know your true love From many another one?" Oh, by his cockle hat and staff, 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, For I have lost the sweetest youth And now, alas ! for thy sad loss I'll ever weep and sigh ; "Weep no more, lady, weep no more, For violets plucked, the sweetest shower Our joys as wingèd dreams do fly, "Oh, say not so, thou holy friar, For since my true-love died for me, And will he never come again? Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his For ever to remain. grave, His cheek was redder than the rose; "Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more ; Men were deceivers ever; To one thing constant never. Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, For young men e'er were fickle found, "Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; My love he had the truest heart, Oh, he was ever true! And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth? Then farewell, home; for evermore 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; Oh, stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, Thy own true love 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 Might I still hope to win thy love, |