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O lead me wheresoe'er I go,

Through this day's life or death!
This day, be bread and peace my lot:

All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not,

And let thy will be done.
To Thee, whose Temple is all space,

Whose altar, earth, sea, skies; 50
One chorus let all Being raise !
All nature's incense rise !

POPK.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.

FIRST PUBLISHED BY DR. PERCY. It was a Friar of Orders Grey

Walk'd 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, 5

I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine

My true-love thou didst 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 swectly curld,

And eyne of lovely blue. "

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“O Lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady he is 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.
“Here bore him barefaced 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 didst 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. i. “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:

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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, i 55

'T is meet my tears should flow. “And will he never 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 comeliest youth was he!
But he is dead and laid in his grave:

Alas, and woe is me!" “Sigh no more, Lady, sigh no more, 65

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!

asen 10 “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 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;

90 No drizzly rain that falls on me

Can wash my fault away.” “ Yet stay, fair Lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears ; For see beneath this gown of grey

Thy own true-love appears. “Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.

100 “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 105

Once more unto my heart:

For since I've found thee, lovely youth,

We never more will part.”

THE FIRE-SIDE.

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DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,

In folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride
Be call’d our choice, we 'll step aside,

Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we 'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heartfelt joys.

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If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.

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Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left

That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursions o'er,
The disappointed bird once more

Explored the sacred bark.

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