No More Learning

We take our leaves now of the loom
From whence the housewives' cloth did come:
_Chor. _ The web affords now nothing;
Thou being dead,
The worsted thread
Is cut, that made us clothing.

Farewell the flax and reaming wool
With which thy house was plentiful;
Farewell the coats, the garments, and
The sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand;
Farewell thy fire and thy light
That ne'er went out by day or night:
_Chor. _ No, or thy zeal so speedy,
That found a way
By peep of day,
To feed and cloth the needy.

But, ah, alas! the almond bough
And olive branch is withered now.
The wine press now is ta'en from us,
The saffron and the calamus.
The spice and spikenard hence is gone,
The storax and the cinnamon.
_Chor. _ The carol of our gladness
Has taken wing,
And our late spring
Of mirth is turned to sadness.

How wise wast thou in all thy ways!
How worthy of respect and praise!
How matron-like didst thou go dressed!
How soberly above the rest
Of those that prank it with their plumes,
And jet it with their choice perfumes!
_Chor.
_ Thy vestures were not flowing:
Nor did the street
Accuse thy feet
Of mincing in their going.

And though thou here li'st dead, we see
A deal of beauty yet in thee.
How sweetly shows thy smiling face,
Thy lips with all-diffused grace!
Thy hands, though cold, yet spotless white,
And comely as the chrysolite!
_Chor. _ Thy belly like a hill is,
Or as a neat
Clean heap of wheat,
All set about with lilies.

Sleep with thy beauties here, while we
Will show these garments made by thee;
These were the coats, in these are read
The monuments of Dorcas dead.
These were thy acts, and thou shall have
These hung as honours o'er thy grave;
_Chor. _ And after us, distressed,
Should fame be dumb,
Thy very tomb
Would cry out, Thou art blessed.

_Deal_, portion.
_Maundy_, the alms given on Thursday in Holy Week.
_Reaming_, drawing out into threads.
_Calamus_, a fragrant plant, the sweet flag.
_Chrysolite_, the topaz.


124. TO GOD IN TIME OF PLUNDERING.