Give me my scallop-shell[62] 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 body’s balmer,—­
  No other balm will there be given—­
  Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
  Travelleth towards the land of Heaven;
  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. 
  Then by that happy blissful day,
  More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
  That have cast off their rags of clay,
  And walk apparelled fresh like me: 
  I’ll take them first,
  To quench their thirst,
  And taste of nectar’s suckets, sweet things—­things to suck.
      At those clear wells
      Where sweetness dwells,
  Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 
  And when our bottles and all we
  Are filled with immortality,
  Then the blessed paths we’ll travel,
  Strowed with rubies thick as gravel. 
  Ceilings of diamonds! sapphire floors! 
  High walls of coral, and pearly bowers!—­
  From thence to Heaven’s bribeless hall,
  Where no corrupted voices brawl;
  No conscience molten into gold;
  No forged accuser bought or sold;
  No cause deferred; no vain-spent journey;
  For there Christ is the King’s Attorney,
  Who pleads for all without degrees, irrespective of rank.
  And he hath angels, but no fees. 
  And when the grand twelve million jury
  Of our sins, with direful fury,
  ’Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
  Christ pleads his death, and then we live. 
  Be thou my speaker, taintless Pleader,
  Unblotted Lawyer, true Proceeder! 
  Thou giv’st salvation even for alms,—­
  Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms. 
  And this is my 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. 
  Of death and judgment, heaven and hell
  Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

This poem is a somewhat strange medley, with a confusion of figure, and a repeated failure in dignity, which is very far indeed from being worthy of Raleigh’s prose.  But it is very remarkable how wretchedly some men will show, who, doing their own work well, attempt that for which practice has not—­to use a word of the time—­enabled them.  There is real power in the poem, however, and the confusion is far more indicative of the pleased success