On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side,

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 420 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 425 Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, 430 As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

Black his locks as the winter night

White his skin as the summer snow,
10 Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

15 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout,

20

25

30

35

40

O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing

In the briar'd dell below;

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave

Shall the barren flowers be laid:

Not one holy Saint to save

All the coldness of a maid!

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll gird the briars
Round his holy corse to grow.

45 Elfin Faëry, light your fires;
Here my body still shall bow.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree,

50 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my hearte's blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night or feast by day.
My love is dead,

55

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

5

THE BALADE OF CHARITIE

(From Poems collected 1777)

In Virginè the sultry Sun 'gan sheene
And hot upon the meads did cast his ray:
The apple ruddied from its paly green,

And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;
The pied chelandry sang the livelong day:
'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the ground was dight in its most deft

aumere.

The sun was gleaming in the mid of day, Dead still the air and eke the welkin blue, 10 When from the sea arist in drear array A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue, The which full fast unto the woodland drew, Hiding at once the sunnè's festive face;

And the black tempest swelled and gathered up

apace.

15 Beneath an holm, fast by a pathway side

Which did unto Saint Godwyn's convent lead, A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,

Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed,
Long breast-full of the miseries of need.

20 Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly? He had no housen there, nor any convent nigh.

25

Look in his gloomèd face; his sprite there scan,
How woe-begone, how withered, sapless, dead!
Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursèd man,
Haste to thy coffin, thy sole slumbering-bed!
Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head
Are Charity and Love among high elves;
The Knights and Barons live for pleasure and
themselves.

The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall; 30 The sunburnt meadows smoke and drink the rain;

The coming ghastness dothe the cattle appal,
And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters gush
again;

The welkin opes, the yellow levin flies,

35 And the hot fiery steam in the wide flame-lowe dies.

40

List! now the thunder's rattling clamouring sound

Moves slowly on, and then upswollen clangs, Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drown'd,

Still on the affrighted ear of terror hangs; The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swangs; Again the levin and the thunder pours,

And the full clouds are burst at once in stormy showers.

Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain,

The Abbot of Saint Godwyn's convent came; 45 His chapournette was drenched with the rain, His painted girdle met with mickle shame; He backwards told his bederoll at the same.

The storm increasèd, and he drew aside,

With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.

50 His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,

With a gold button fastened near his chin, His autremete was edged with golden twine, And his peaked shoe a lordling's might have been;

Full well it showed he counted cost no sin: 55 The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight, For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.

60

65

"An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim
said,

"O let me wait within your convent-door
Till the sun shineth high above our head
And the loud tempest of the air is o'er.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor:

No house, nor friend, no money in my pouch;
All that I call my own is this my silver crouch."

"Varlet," replied the Abbot, "cease your din;

This is no season alms and prayers to give;
My porter never lets a beggar in;

None touch my ring who not in honour live."
And now the sun with the black clouds did

strive,

And shot upon the ground his glaring ray:

70 The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode

75

away.

Once more the sky was black, the thunder roll'd:
Fast running o'er the plain a priest was seen,
Not dight full proud nor buttoned up in gold;
His cope and jape were grey, and eke were
clean;

A Limitour he was, of order seen;