Читать книгу My Commonplace Book онлайн

71 страница из 124

A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,

Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothing

Long brimful of the miseries of need.

Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?

He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;

How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!

Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man! grave

Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.

Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head

Are Charity and Love among high elves;

For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,

The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain;

The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall, gloom, appal

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 flashings dies.

List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy sound

Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,

Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,