- In Virgynë the sweltrie sun gan sheene,
- And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;
- The apple rodded from its palie greene,
- And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;
- The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;
- 'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare,
- And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste defte aumere.
- The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie,
- Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue,
- When from the sea arist in drear arraie
- A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,
- The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,
- Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,
- And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace.
- Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,
- Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine's covent lede,
- A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide.
- Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede,
- Longe bretful of the miseries of neede,
- Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie?
- He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.
- Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne;
- Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!
- Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne!
- Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde.
- Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde,
- Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;
- Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.
- The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;
- The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;
- The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,
- And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;
- Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe;
- The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies;
- And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.
- Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound
- Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs,
- Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd,
- Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;
- The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges;
- Again the levynne and the thunder poures,
- And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.
- Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine,
- The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came;
- His chapournette was drented with the reine,
- And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame;
- He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same;
- The storme encreasen, and he drew aside,
- With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide.
- His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne,
- With a gold button fasten'd neere his chynne;
- His autremete was edged with golden twynne,
- And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne;
- Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne:
- The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte,
- For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte.
- "An almes, sir prieste!" the droppynge pilgrim saide,
- "O! let me waite within your covente dore,
- Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,
- And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer;
- Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor;
- No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;
- All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche."
- "Varlet," replyd the Abbatte, "cease your dinne;
- This is no season almes and prayers to give;
- Mie porter never lets a faitour in;
- None touch mie rynge who not in honour live."
- And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,
- And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie,
- The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie.
- Once moe the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde;
- Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen;
- Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;
- His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene;
- A Limitoure he was of order seene;
- And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,
- Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.
- "An almes, sir priest!" the droppynge pilgrim sayde,
- "For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake."
- The Limitoure then loosen'd his pouche threade,
- And did thereoute a groate of silver take;
- The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake.
- "Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care;
- We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.
- "But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me,
- Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde.
- Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see;
- Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde."
- He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.
- Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure,
- Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power.
THOMAS CHATTERTON - An Excelente Balade Of Charitie
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