English

Next, from the farthest nook of all the place,
Weeping full sore, there rose a nymph in black,
Seemly and sober, with an angel's face,
And sigh'd as if her heart-strings straight should crack:
Her outward woes bewray'd her inward wrack.
A golden book she carried in her hand;
It was Religion that thus meek did stand.

God wot, her garments were full loosely tuck'd,
As one that careless was in some despair;
To tatters were her robes and vestures pluck'd,
Her naked limbs were open to the air;

Lame of a leg, as she had lost a limb,
Start up kind Hospitality and wept:
She silent sat awhile and sigh'd by him;
As one half-maimed, to this knight she crept;
At last about his neck, this nymph she leapt,
And, with her cornucopia in her fist,
For very love his chilly lips she kiss'd.

Ay me, quoth she, my love is lorn by death;
My chiefest stay is crack'd, and I am lame:
He that his alms frankly did bequeath,
And fed the poor with store of food, the same,
Even he is dead, and vanish'd is his name,

With open hands, and mourning locks dependant,
Bounty stepp'd forth to wail the dead man's loss:
On her were Love and Plenty both attendant:
Tears in her eyes, arms folded quite across,
Sitting by him upon a turf of moss,
She sigh'd, and said, Here lies the knight deceas'd,
Whose bounty Bounty's glory much increas'd.

His looks were liberal, and in his face
Sat frank magnificence with arms display'd;
His open hands discours'd his inward grace;
The poor were never at their need denied:

Then Temperance, with bridle in her hand,
Did mildly look upon this lifeless lord,
And like to weeping Niobe did stand:
Her sorrows and her tears did well accord;
Their diapason was in self-same cord.
Here lies the man, quoth she, that breath'd out this, —
" To shun fond pleasures is the sweetest bliss."

No choice delight could draw his eyes awry'
He was not bent to pleasure's fond conceits;
Inveigling pride, nor world's sweet vanity,
Love's luring follies with their strange deceits,

Next Fortitude arose unto this knight,
And by his side sat down with steadfast eyes:
A broken column 'twixt her arms was pight:
She could not weep nor pour out yearnful cries.
From Fortitude such base affects nill rise;
Brass-renting goddess, she cannot lament:
Yet thus her plaints with breathing sighs were spent.

Within the Maiden's Court, place of all places,
I did advance a man of high desert,
Whom nature had made proud with all her graces,
Inserting courage in his noble heart:

A wreath of serpents 'bout her lily wrist
Did seemly Prudence wear; she then arose;
A silver dove sat mourning on her fist;
Tears on her cheeks like dew upon a rose;
And thus began the goddess grief-ful glose:
" Let England mourn, for why his days are done
Whom Prudence nursed like her dearest son. "

Hatton, — at that I started in my dream,
But not awoke, " Hatton is dead, " quoth she!
Oh, could I pour out tears like to a stream,
A sea of them would not sufficient be!
For why our age had few more wise than he!

Untoward twins that temper human fate,
Who from your distaff draw the life of man,
Parse, impartial to the highest state,
Too soon you cut what Clotho erst began:
Your fatal dooms this present age may ban,
For you have robb'd the world of such a knight
As best could skill to balance Justice right.

His eyes were seats for mercy and for law,
Favour in one, and Justice in the other:
The poor he smooth'd, the proud he kept in awe;
As just to strangers as unto his brother;
Bribes could not make him any wrong to smother,

Methought in slumber as I lay and dreamt,
I saw a silent spring rail'd in with jet,
From sunny shade or murmur quite exempt,
The glide whereof 'gainst weeping flints did beat;
And round about were leafless beeches set;
So dark, it seem'd night's mantle for to borrow,
And well to be the gloomy den of sorrow.

About this spring, in mourning robes of black,
Were sundry nymphs or goddesses, methought,
That seemly sat in ranks, just back to back,
On mossy benches nature there had wrought;

HYMN L.

Thus we commemorate the day
On which our dearest Lord was slain;
Thus we our pious homage pay,
Till he appears on earth again.

Come, dear Lord Jesus, quickly come,
Why stay thy chariot-wheels so long?
Thy church below, thy other home,
Shall welcome thee with many a song.

Come, great redeemer, open wide
The curtains of the parting sky:
On a bright cloud in triumph ride,
And on the wind's swift pinions fly.

Come, king of kings, with thy bright train,

HYMN XLIX.

'T IS finish'd, the redeemer crys;
Then lowly bows his fainting head;
And soon th' expiring sacrifice
Sinks to the regions of the dead.

'Tis done — the mighty work is done!
For men or angels much too great;
Which none, but God's eternal son,
Or would attempt, or could complete.

'Tis done, — his tears, his groans, and wounds,
His sweat and blood, his pains and toils,
Vict'ry with deathless glory crowns,
With trophies, and triumphant spoils.