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| IN Virginè 1 the sweltry sun ’gan sheene, | |
| And hot upon the mees did cast his ray; | |
| The apple ripened from its paly green, | |
| And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray; | |
| The pied chelàndre sung the livelong day; | 5 |
| ’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year, | |
| And eke the ground was dressed in its most deft aumere. | |
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| The sun was gleaming in the midst of day, | |
| Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue, | |
| When from the sea arose in drear array | 10 |
| A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue, | |
| The which full fast unto the woodland drew, | |
| Hiding at once the sunnìs beauteous face, | |
| And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace. | |
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| Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-side, | 15 |
| Which did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead, | |
| A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide, | |
| Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, | |
| Long fillèd with the miseries of need. | |
| Where from the hailstone could the beggar fly? | 20 |
| He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh. | |
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| 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 kiste, thy only sleeping bed. | 25 |
| Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head | |
| Is charity and love among high elves; | |
| Knightis and barons 2 live for pleasure and themselves. | |
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| The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall, | |
| The sun-burnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain; | 30 |
| The coming ghastness do the cattle ’pall, | |
| And the full flocks are driving o’er the plain; | |
| Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again; | |
| The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies, | |
| And the hot fiery steam in the wide lowings dies. | 35 |
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| List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy sound | |
| Moves slowly on, and then embollen clangs, | |
| Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned, | |
| Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs; | |
| The winds are up; the lofty elmen swangs; | 40 |
| Again the lightning and the thunder pours, | |
| And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers. | |
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| Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain, | |
| The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came; | |
| His chapournette was drentèd with the rain, | 45 |
| And his pencte girdle met with mickle shame; | |
| He backwards told his bede-roll at the same; | |
| The storm increases, and he drew aside, | |
| With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide. | |
| |
| His cloak was all of Lincoln cloth so fine, | 50 |
| With a gold button fastened near his chin, | |
| His autremete was edged with golden twine, | |
| And his shoe’s peak a loverde’s might have been; | |
| Full well it shewn he thoughten cost no sin. | |
| The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight, | 55 |
| For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight. | |
| |
| ‘An alms, sir priest!’ the drooping pilgrim said, | |
| ‘Oh! 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. | 60 |
| Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor. | |
| No house, no friend, no money in my pouch, | |
| All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.’ | |
| |
| ‘Varlet!’ replied the Abbot, ‘cease your din; | |
| This is no season alms and prayers to give, | 65 |
| 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 shedding on the ground his glaring ray; | |
| The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoon rode away. | 70 |
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| Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled, | |
| 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; | 75 |
| And from the pathway-side then turnèd he, | |
| Where the poor beggar lay beneath the elmen tree. | |
| |
| ‘An alms, sir priest!’ the drooping pilgrim said, | |
| ‘For sweet Saint Mary and your order sake.’ | |
| The limitour then loosened his pouch-thread, | 80 |
| And did thereout a groat of silver take: | |
| The needy pilgrim did for halline shake, | |
| ‘Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care, | |
| We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear. | |
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| ‘But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me. | 85 |
| Scathe any give a rent-roll to their lord; | |
| Here, take my semi-cope, thou’rt bare, I see, | |
| ’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.’ | |
| He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde. | |
| Virgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure, | 90 |
| Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power. | |
