Spyrreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, The Abbote of Seynete Godwynes convente came; His chapournette was drented with the reine, And his penete gyrdle met with mickle shame; He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same; The storme encreasen, and he drew aside, With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide. His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, With a gold button fasten'd neere his chynne; His autremete was edged with golden twynne, And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne; Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne: The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. An almes, sir prieste! the droppynge pilgrim saide: O! let me waite within your covente dore, Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer; Helpless and ould am I, alas! and poor: No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche. Varlet, replyd the Abbatte, cease your dinne; This is no season almes and prayers to give; Mie porter never lets a faitour in; None touch mie rynge who not in honour live. And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie, The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde; Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen; Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; A Limitoure he was of order seene; And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree. An almes, sir priest! the droppynge pilgrim sayde, For sweete Seynete Marie and your order sake. The Limitoure then loosen'd his pouche threade, And did thereoute a groate of silver take; The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. Here, take this silver, it maie eathe thie care; We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare. But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me, Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. Here, take my semecope, thou arte bare I see; Tis thyne; the Seynetes will give me mie rewarde. He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. Virgynne and hallie Seynete, who sitte yn gloure, Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power! THE RESIGNATION O God! whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom-globe surveys, To thee, my only rock, I fly,-- Thy mercy in thy justice praise. The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial night, Are past the power of human skill; But what the Eternal acts is right. O teach me, in the trying hour-- When anguish swells the dewy tear-- To still my sorrows, own thy power. Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.