Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou did'st see.

And how should I know your true love
From many another one?
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 curl'd,
eyne of lovely blue.

And

O lady he is dead and gone!
Lady he's dead and gone!

And at his head a green grass turf,

And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloisters long

He languish'd, and he died,

Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

* These are the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim, The chief places of devotion being beyond the sea, the pilgrims were wont to put cockle-shells in their hats to denote the intention, or performance of their devotion.

Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
Six proper youths and tall,

And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!

And did'st thou die for love of me!
Break, cruel heart of stone!

O weep not, lady, weep not so;

Some ghostly comfort seek:

Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew 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 wish'd to live,
For thee I wish to die.

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,
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 true love died for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he ne'er come again?
Will he ne'er come again?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose,
The com❜liest youth was he :
But he is dead, and laid in his grave :
Alas! and woe is me!

Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever:
One foot on sea, and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy;

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,
And didst thou die for me?

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,
Can wash my fault away.

Here forc'd 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 pass'd 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 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,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray.

* The year of probation, or noviciate.