264 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY Fear oftentimes restraineth words, Our wealth leaves us at death; The sweetest time of all my life THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.-Percy. 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?” "O, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon. "But chiefly by his face and mien, THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. "O lady, he is dead and gone, "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 "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth? "O, weep not, lady, weep not so! "O, do not, do not, holy friar, "And now, alas! for thy sad loss 265 266 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. "Weep no more, lady, weep no more; For violets plucked the sweetest showers "Our joys as winged dreams do fly; "O, say not so, thou holy friar ; Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, "Now say not so, thou holy friar, My love he had the truest heart; O, he was ever true! "And art thou dead, thou much loved youth? And didst thou die for me? Then farewell, home; for evermore A pilgrim I will be. "But first upon my truelove's grave And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf That wraps his breathless clay." THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 267 "Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall; The cold wind through the hawthorn blows, "O, stay me not, thou holy friar, No drizzly rain that falls on me "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, For see, beneath this gown of Thy own truelove appears! gray, "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 For since I 've found thee, lovely youth, 268 TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHFY SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. — Milton. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. — 'Tis 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, |