In the
wrackes of Walsingham
Whom should I chuse
But the Queen of Walsingham
To be guide to my muse?Then thou Prince of
Walsingham
Grant me to frame
Bitter plaintes to rewe they wrong
Bitter wo for my name.
Bitter was it oh to see
The seely sheepe
Murdered by the raveninge wolves
While the sheephards did sleep.
Bitter was it oh to vewe
The sacred vyne
While the gardiners plaied all close
Rooted up by the swine.
Bitter, bitter oh to behould
The grasse to growe
Where the walls of Walsingham
So stately did shewe.
Such were the works of Walsingham
Where she did stand
Such are the wrackes as noe do shewe
Of that holy land.
Levell levell with the ground
The towres doe lye
Which with their golden, gliitering tops
Pearsed once to the sky.
Where weare gates no gates are nowe,
The waies unknowen,
Where the press of peares did pass
While her fame was far blowen.
Oules do scrike where the sweetest himnes
Lately were songe,
Toades and serpents hold their dennes
Where the palmers did throng.
Weepe, weepe O Walsingham,
Whose dayes are nightes,
Blessings turned to blasphemies,
Holy deeds to dispites.
Sinne is where our Ladie sate,
Heaven turned is to hell,
Sathan sittes where our Lord did swaye,
Walsingham oh farewell. |