On the chalk-white strand of Britain,

Where the sun to southwards burns,

To which shores our Flemish lowlands

Were connected, long ago

(If we may believe the theories

Of deep scholars of our days,

Who are looking to the cradle

Of the world before the flood):

At the foot of those chalk-cliffs which

Stand against the gnawing waves

Of the driving northern breakers

In their brackish ebb and flow,

And their light-foot springing waters,

And their rippling assault –

There a shepherd-boy of Holland

Sadly lay, by grief brought low.

Love's conceits their youthful burden

Never laid upon his soul,

Of a thousand youthful hearts, his

Heart alone remained his own

And that eye was not created,

(Or at least was not yet found)

That his own eye would gaze into,

Before Heaven ordained the hour.

Sharper grief than lover's grieving,

Pleasurable melancholy,

Cut his breathing into sighing

And disolved his eyes in tears.

Those whose grief is sensual weeping

Love to flaunt their lovers’ woes,

Shows and follies do not join with

Silent grieving and real pain.

Klachten van verijlde koppen,

Stenens-kunst, verweende sangh,

Tranen van gemaeckte droppen

Soecken allesins ‘tgedrangh:

Hij was rijckelick te vreden

Met de tuijghen die hij vond,

Van sijn’ ongeveijnsde reden;

Son en hemel, zee en grond.

Ebbe, seijd’ hij (’tgingh van ebbe)

Dubbeldaeghse water-beurt,

Die ick lieff en liever hebbe

Om de kielen die ghij beurt

Met de Westelijcke vlaghen

Naer de deuren vanden Rhijn,

Die nu zes mael zestich daghen

Mijnes onbevaren zijn;

Als ghij daer mijn’ overburen

Naeste reijs genaken sult,

En haer’ bancken overschuren

Die de droochte nu vermult;

Seght hun, Ebb’, op mijn bevelen

Hoe 't haer balling-borgher gaet,

Hoeder in sijn’ vochte schelen

Stadich 't volle springh-Tij staet.

Hoe sijn’ sorghen altijdt wacker,

Hoe sijn’ suchten altijdt vers

's Vaderlandts bebloeijden acker

Overwandelen van verrs;

Hoe sijn’ rusteloose nachten

Mijmeringhen sonder end,

Knoopen zijn van werr-gedachten,

Schilderijen van ellend:

Empty heads are always moaning,

Artful mourning, sensual song,

Facile, fabricated tear-drops,

These an audience require;

But the shepherd was contented

With the auditors he found,

For his unfeigned lamentation:

Sun and sky and sea and strand.