Ode 3. Upon a holy Saintès Eve

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

UPON a holy Saintès Eve

As I took my pilgrimage,

Wand’ring through the forest wary,

Blest be that holy Saint!

I met the lovely Virgin, MARY!

And kneelèd, with long travel faint,

Performing my due homage.

My tears foretold my heart did grieve,

Yet MARY would not me relieve!

Her I did promise, every year,

The firstling female of my flock;

That in my love she would me further.

(I curst the days of my first love,

My comfort’s spoils, my pleasures’ murder.)

She, She, alas, did me reprove!

My suits, as to a stony rock,

Were made; for she would not give ear:

Ah love! dear love! love bought too dear!

MARY, my Saint chaste and mild!

Pity, ah, pity my suit!

Thou art a virgin, pity me!

Shine eyes, though pity wanting;

That she, by them, my grief may see!

And look on mine heart panting!

But her deaf ears, and tongue mute,

Shews her hard heart unreconciled!

Hard heart, from all remorse exiled!