PILGRIMAGE
Giveme my Scallop-shell of Quiet,My Staff of Faith to walk upon;My Scrip of Joy, immortal diet;My Bottle of Salvation.My Gown of Glory, (Hope’s true Gage)And thus I’ll take my Pilgrimage.Blood must be my Bodie’s only Balmer,Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,Travelleth towards the Land of Heaven,No other Balm will there be given.Over the Silver Mountains,Where spring the Nectar Fountains,There will I kiss the Bowl of Bliss,And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken Hill.My Soul will be a-dry before,But after, it will thirst no more.I’ll take them first, to quench my Thirst,And taste of Nectar’s Suckets,At those clear WellsWhere Sweetness dwells,Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets.More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see,That have cast off their Rags of Clay,And walk apparelled fresh like me,And when our Bodies and all weAre filled with Immortality,Then the blessed Parts we’ll travel,Strowed with Rubies thick as Gravel,Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire Flowers,High Walls of Coral, and pearly Bowers.From thence to Heaven’s bribeless Hall,Where no corrupted Voices brawl,No Cause deferred, no vain spent Journey,For thereChristis the King’s Attorney,Who pleads for all without Degrees,And He hath Angels, but no Fees.And this is mine eternal Plea,To Him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,That since my Flesh must die so soon,And want a Head to dine next Noon,Just at the Stroke, when my Veins start and spread,Set on my Soul an everlasting Head.Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit,To tread those blest Paths which before I writ.
Giveme my Scallop-shell of Quiet,My Staff of Faith to walk upon;My Scrip of Joy, immortal diet;My Bottle of Salvation.My Gown of Glory, (Hope’s true Gage)And thus I’ll take my Pilgrimage.Blood must be my Bodie’s only Balmer,Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,Travelleth towards the Land of Heaven,No other Balm will there be given.Over the Silver Mountains,Where spring the Nectar Fountains,There will I kiss the Bowl of Bliss,And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken Hill.My Soul will be a-dry before,But after, it will thirst no more.I’ll take them first, to quench my Thirst,And taste of Nectar’s Suckets,At those clear WellsWhere Sweetness dwells,Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets.More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see,That have cast off their Rags of Clay,And walk apparelled fresh like me,And when our Bodies and all weAre filled with Immortality,Then the blessed Parts we’ll travel,Strowed with Rubies thick as Gravel,Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire Flowers,High Walls of Coral, and pearly Bowers.From thence to Heaven’s bribeless Hall,Where no corrupted Voices brawl,No Cause deferred, no vain spent Journey,For thereChristis the King’s Attorney,Who pleads for all without Degrees,And He hath Angels, but no Fees.And this is mine eternal Plea,To Him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,That since my Flesh must die so soon,And want a Head to dine next Noon,Just at the Stroke, when my Veins start and spread,Set on my Soul an everlasting Head.Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit,To tread those blest Paths which before I writ.
Giveme my Scallop-shell of Quiet,My Staff of Faith to walk upon;My Scrip of Joy, immortal diet;My Bottle of Salvation.My Gown of Glory, (Hope’s true Gage)And thus I’ll take my Pilgrimage.
Giveme my Scallop-shell of Quiet,
My Staff of Faith to walk upon;
My Scrip of Joy, immortal diet;
My Bottle of Salvation.
My Gown of Glory, (Hope’s true Gage)
And thus I’ll take my Pilgrimage.
Blood must be my Bodie’s only Balmer,Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,Travelleth towards the Land of Heaven,No other Balm will there be given.
Blood must be my Bodie’s only Balmer,
Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the Land of Heaven,
No other Balm will there be given.
Over the Silver Mountains,Where spring the Nectar Fountains,There will I kiss the Bowl of Bliss,And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken Hill.My Soul will be a-dry before,But after, it will thirst no more.I’ll take them first, to quench my Thirst,And taste of Nectar’s Suckets,At those clear WellsWhere Sweetness dwells,Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets.
Over the Silver Mountains,
Where spring the Nectar Fountains,
There will I kiss the Bowl of Bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken Hill.
My Soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
I’ll take them first, to quench my Thirst,
And taste of Nectar’s Suckets,
At those clear Wells
Where Sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets.
More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see,That have cast off their Rags of Clay,And walk apparelled fresh like me,And when our Bodies and all weAre filled with Immortality,Then the blessed Parts we’ll travel,Strowed with Rubies thick as Gravel,Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire Flowers,High Walls of Coral, and pearly Bowers.
More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their Rags of Clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me,
And when our Bodies and all we
Are filled with Immortality,
Then the blessed Parts we’ll travel,
Strowed with Rubies thick as Gravel,
Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire Flowers,
High Walls of Coral, and pearly Bowers.
From thence to Heaven’s bribeless Hall,Where no corrupted Voices brawl,No Cause deferred, no vain spent Journey,For thereChristis the King’s Attorney,Who pleads for all without Degrees,And He hath Angels, but no Fees.
From thence to Heaven’s bribeless Hall,
Where no corrupted Voices brawl,
No Cause deferred, no vain spent Journey,
For thereChristis the King’s Attorney,
Who pleads for all without Degrees,
And He hath Angels, but no Fees.
And this is mine eternal Plea,To Him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,That since my Flesh must die so soon,And want a Head to dine next Noon,Just at the Stroke, when my Veins start and spread,Set on my Soul an everlasting Head.Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit,To tread those blest Paths which before I writ.
And this is mine eternal Plea,
To Him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,
That since my Flesh must die so soon,
And want a Head to dine next Noon,
Just at the Stroke, when my Veins start and spread,
Set on my Soul an everlasting Head.
Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit,
To tread those blest Paths which before I writ.
Sir Walter Raleigh.(Condensed)