The winds are up; the lofty elm tree swangs;
Again the lightning, and the thunder pours,
And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.
Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain,
The Abbot of Saint Godwin's convent came;
His chapournette was drenched with the rain,
His painted girdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same;
The storm increases, and he drew aside,
With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.
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 shoe's peak a noble's might have been;
Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.
55 The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,
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.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.
No house, no friend, nor 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,
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;
The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away. 70
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 limitor he was of order seen;
And from the pathway-side then turnèd he,
Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.
"An alms, sir priest !" the drooping pilgrim said,
"For sweet Saint Mary and your order's sake."
The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,
And did thereout a groat of silver take:
The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake,
"Here, take this silver, it may cease thy care,
We are God's stewards all, naught of our own we bear.
But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me.
Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord;
Here, take my semicope, 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,
Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!
"When times are at the worst they will certainly mend."
THIS truth of old was Sorrow's friend,
"Times at the worst will surely mend,"
The difficulty's then, to know
How long Oppression's clock can go;
When Britain's sons may cease to sigh,
And hope that their redemption's nigh.
When Vice exalted takes the lead,
And Vengeance hangs but by a thread;
When vile Corruption's brazen face
At council-board shall take her place,
And lords and commoners resort
To welcome her at Britain's court;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
See Pension's harbour, large and clear,
Defended by St. Stephen's pier!
The entrance safe, by current led,
Tiding round G[rafton]'s jetty-head
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When civil-power shall snore at ease,
While soldiers fire to keep the peace;
When murders sanctuary find,
And petticoats can Justice blind;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
Commerce o'er bondage will prevail,
Free as the wind that fills her sail;
When she complains of vile restraint,
And power is deaf to her complaint;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When raw projectors shall begin
Oppression's hedge, to keep her in;
She in disdain will take her flight,
And bid the Gotham fools good-night.
Look up, ye Britons!. cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When tax is laid, to save debate,
By prudent ministers of state;
And what the people did not give
Is levied by prerogative;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When popish bishops dare to claim
Authority, in George's name;
By treason's hand set up, in spite
Of George's title, William's right;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When popish priest a pension draws
From starved exchequer, for the cause;
Commissioned proselytes to make
In British realms, for Britain's sake;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When snug in power, sly recusants
Make laws for British protestants;
And d―g William's revolution
As justices, claim execution;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When soldiers, paid for our defence,
In wanton pride slay innocence;
Blood from the ground for vengeance reeks,
Till Heaven the inquisition makes;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
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