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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.
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.
