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Th' appointed hour. On earth is one, attends

Her loss with trembling—he who 'mid the woes

Of the ill-born shall pass through deepest hell,

And "I have seen the hope of saints" shall tell.'

My lady thus is longed for in high heaven,

And of her power this I would have you know,

Who would be noble known, with her should go;

For when she passes forth upon the way,

All evil hearts are from her presence driven,

And in her eyes pure love indignant chills

Ill thoughts, and every foulness binds or kills.

Noble must he become who dares to stay

And gaze on her; or die; and whoso may

Worthy behold her, proves her greatness more.

If she salutes him, all his being o'er

Flows humbleness that bears all wrath away;

And yet a higher grace does God confer—

He never will end ill who speaks with her.

Love says of her, can anything that lives

So fair adornèd be and yet so pure?

Then looks at her, and swears that, true and sure,

Great God of her a new creation makes.

Pale as a pearl she is; paleness that gives

A woman grace, yet not too pale a hue.

In her is seen what Nature all can do;

Her for most high example Beauty takes.

Within her sweet eyes, as she moves, there wakes

Such gleam and glow of love, so warm and bright,

As dazzles gazing eyes and kindles light

And warmth in every heart whereon it breaks.

Love in her lovely smiling, pictured lies;

But who can gaze on it with steadfast eyes?

Song, well I know thou wilt go forth and talk

With many ladies, when thou art despatched;

I warn thee, I who trained thee and have watched

Thy growth, a young and modest child of love,