COME then, ye Virgins and ye Youths, whose hearts
Have felt the raptures of refining love;
And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song!
Formed by the Graces, Loveliness itself!
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mixed,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
Oh come! and while the rosy-footed May
Steals blushing on, together let us tread
The morning dews; and gather, in their prime,
Fresh blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair,
And thy loved bosom, that improves their sweets.
See where the winding vale its lavish stores
Irriguous spreads. See how the lily drinks
The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass
Of growth luxuriant, or the humid bank
In fair profusion decks. Long let us walk
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field
Of blossomed beans: Arabia cannot boast
A fuller gale of joy, than liberal, thence
Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravished soul. Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Full of fresh verdure and unnumbered flowers,
The negligence of Nature wide and wild,
Where, undisguised by mimic Art, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Through the soft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;
And oft with bolder wing they soaring dare
The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,
And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.
THOMSON.-[From "The Seasons."]
Gentle Herdsman, tell to me.
GENTLE herdsman, tell to me,
Of courtesy I thee pray,
Unto the town of Walsingham
Which is the right and ready way?
"Unto the town of Walsingham
The way is hard for to be gone;
And
very crooked are those paths
For you to find out all alone."
Were the miles doubled thrice,
And the way never so ill,
It were not enough for mine offence;
It is so grievous and so ill.
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 farI 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,
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