Читать книгу The Oxford Book of English Verse - Various Authors - Страница 65

Song of Mary the Mother of Christ (London: E. Alide), 1601

HIERUSALEM, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,

Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the Saints!

O sweet and pleasant soil!

In thee no sorrow may be found,

No grief, no care, no toil.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell,

There envy bears no sway;

There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,

But pleasure every way.

Thy walls are made of precious stones,

Thy bulwarks diamonds square;

Thy gates are of right orient pearl,

Exceeding rich and rare.

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles

With carbuncles do shine;

Thy very streets are paved with gold,

Surpassing clear and fine.

Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks

Continually are green;

There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers

As nowhere else are seen.

Quite through the streets, with silver sound,

The flood of Life doth flow;

Upon whose banks on every side

The wood of Life doth grow.

There trees for evermore bear fruit,

And evermore do spring;

There evermore the angels sit,

And evermore do sing.

Our Lady sings Magnificat With tones surpassing sweet; And all the virgins bear their part, Sitting about her feet.

Hierusalem, my happy home,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!