“Come Aage, dear Archbishop, come,
Do thou the Lord’s devoted make me;
This blessed place shall be my home
Till out a lifeless corse they take me.”
There were so many warriors bold
Whose hearts were all with sorrow laden,
When they saw cast the dingy mould
O’er Valborg’s arm, the lovely maiden.
Now Valborg in that abbey grey
Doth go, its utmost strictness bearing;
From no mass will she keep away,
In every matin song she’s sharing.
Of maids and dames there’s every year
Full many a one to cloister given;
But none so fair as Valborg dear,
Whose equal lives not under heaven.
’Tis better ne’er to breathe the air
Than pine for ever on in sadness;
Each day to eat one’s bread with care,
And ne’er enjoy a moment’s gladness.
To them repentance God impart,
By whose vile means are those divided,
Who have each other dear at heart,
And whose love is by honor guided.
* * * * *
London:
Printed for Thomas J. Wise, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.