Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Black hys cryne (b) as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode (c) as the fommer fnowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle ftote,
O! hee lys bie the wyllowe tree.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe fynge,
To the nyghte-mares as theie goc.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

See the whyte moone theenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves fhroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge fkie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Heere, upon mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Ne one hallie fcyncte to fave
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'll dent the brieres
Rounde hys hallie corfe to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie boddie ftille fchalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I fcorne,

Daunce bie nete, or feafte by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes (d),
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damfelle spake, and dyed.

(b) Hair.

(c) Complexion. (d) Water-flags. (e) Endeavoured, (S) Freeze. (g) Undismayed.

(h) Armed, pointed.

$93. Chorus in Godd-wyn, a Tragedie. CHATTERTON, &C.

WHAN Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned

veste, To everie knyghte her warre-fonge funge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde; A gorie anlace by her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe;

She hearde the voice of deathe; Pale-eyned Affryghte, hys harte of filver hue, In vayne affayled(e)her bofom to acale(f);[woe, She hearde onflemed(g)the shriekynge voice of And fadneffe ynne the owlette shake the dale, She fhooke the burled (b) fpeere, On hie the jeste (i) her theelde, Her foemen (j) all appere, And flizze (k) along the feelde.

Power, wythe his heafod (1) ftraught (m) ynto

the skyes,

[itarre.

Hys fpeere a fonne-beame, and hys theelde a Alyche (n) twaie (0) brendeyng (1) gronfyres (q) rolls hys eyes,

[to war.

Chaftes (r) with his yronne feete, and foundes
She fyttes upon a rocke,
She bendes before hys fpeere
She ryfes from the fhocke,
Wieldyng her own yn ayre,

Harde as the thonder dothe the drive ytte on,
Wytte fcillye(s) wympled (1) gies (u) ytte to

hys crowne, (ys gon, Hys longe tharpe fpeere, his fpreddyng theelde He falles, andfallynge rolleth thoufandes down. War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld (x),

arist (y),

Hys feerie heaulme (z) noddynge to the ayre, Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne bys itreynynge fyft.

DYER.

$94. Grongar Hill. SILENT Nymph! with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noife of bufy man, Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet fings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the foreft with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy fifter Mufe. Now while Phoebus riding high, Gives luftre to the land and fky, Grongar Hill invites my fong,

Draw the landscape bright and ftrong; Grongar! in whofe molly cells, Sweetly mufing Quiet dwells; Grongar! in whofe filent fhade, For the modeft Muses made, (n) Like.

(p) Flaming. (q) Meteors.

(t) Mantled, covered; (u) Guides.

(r) Armed.

(y) Arose.

(r) Beats, stamps. (s) Closely.

(*) Helmet.

So oft I have, the evening ftill,
As the fountain of a rill,

Sat upon a flow'ry bed,

With my hand beneath my head,

While tray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,

From houfe to houfe, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd fides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind;
And groves and grottos, where I lay,
And viftas fhooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their fummits from the skies,
And leffen as the others rife.
Still the profpect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens ftill,
And finks the newly-rifen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours,, intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature fhew
In all the hues of heaven's bow;
And, fwelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the fight.

Old caftles on the cliff's arise,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the fpires
Seem from hence afcending fires:
Half his beams Apollo fheds
On the yellow mountain heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the fable yew:
The flender fir that taper grows,

The sturdy oak with broad spread boughs;
And, beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the op'ning dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, fteep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His fides are cloth'd with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That caftan awful look below;
Whofe ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a fafety from the wind
On mutual dependance find.

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode,
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox fecurely feeds,
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, mofs, and weeds;
. While, ever and anon, there falls

Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.

Yet time has feen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has feen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state:
But tranfient is the fmile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A fun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And fee the rivers, how they run
Thro' woods and meads, in fhade and fun!
Sometimes fwift, fometimes flow,
Wave fucceeding wave, they go,
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless fleep!
Thus is Nature's vefture wrought,
To inftruct our wand'ring thought;
Thus fhe dreffes green and gay,
To difperfe our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody vallies, warm and low
The windy fummit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant feat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the fhady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the profpect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How clofe and fmall the hedges lie!
What ftreaks of meadows cross the eye
A ftep, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little diftant dangers feem:
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass.
As yon fummits foft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to thofe who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the fame coarfe way;
The prefent 's ftill a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I fee!
Content me with a humble fhade,
My passions tam'd, my wifhes laid:
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banith quiet from the foul:
'Tis thus the bufy beat the air,
And mifers gather wealth and care.
Now, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr fings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the fhepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with mufic fill the fky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

!

Be full, ye courts! be great who will; Search for peace with all your skill,

Open

Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor:
In vain ye fearch, she is not there;
In vain ye fearch the domes of Care!
Grafs and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-head,
Along with Pleasure close allied,
Ever by each other's fide;

And often, by the murm'ring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is ftill,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

$95. A Monody on the Death of his Lady.
By GEORGE LORD LYTTLETON.

Ipse cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,
Te, dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.'

AT length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye,

From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care, [fhare, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embow`ring fhade, This lone retreat, for tender forrow made, I now may give my burden'd heart relief, And pour forth all my stores of grief; Of grief furpaffing every other woe, Far as the purest blifs, the happiest love, Can on th' ennobled mind bestow, Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our grofs defires, inelegant and low. Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rills, Ye high o'erfhadowing hills, Ye lawns gay-finiling with eternal green, Oft have you my Lucy feen! But never fhall you now behold her more: Nor will the now, with fond delight, And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore. Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,

Thofe beauteous eyes, wherebeaming us dtofhine
Reafon's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;
For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The sweetest fongfters of the fpring;
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more:
The nightingale was mute,
And ev'ry thepherd's flute
Was caft in filent fcorn away,
While all attended to her fweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong:
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell;

For death has stopp'd that tuneful tongue,

Nor by yon fountain's fide, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can the now be found: In all the wide-ftretch'd prospect's ample No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

[bound,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie.

Ofhades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.
You she preferr'd to all the gay reforts
Where female vanity might with to thine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modeft beauties fhunn'd the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales,

And flower-embroider'd vales,
From an admiring world the chofe to fly.
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The filent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every paffion from her breast;
But thofe, the gentlest and the best,
Whofe holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who like the littleplayfulfawns,
Where wont to trip along thefe verdant

By your delighted mother's side, [lawns, Who now your infant fteps fhall guide? Ah! where is now the hand, whofe tender care, To everyvirtue would have form'd your youth, And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth?

O lofs beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone, To weeep their dire misfortune, and thy own! How fhall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with

And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, (woe, Perform the duties that you doubly owe,

From follyand from vice their helpless age to fave!
Now, fhe, alas! is gone,

Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair difciple tore;
From these fond arms, that vainly ftrove
With hapless, ineffectual love,
To guard her bofom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favouring pow'r, Aöniaa
maids,

Could not,alas! your power prolong her date; For whom so oft, in thefe infpiring fhades, Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountains hoar, You open'd all your facred store; Whate'er your ancient fages taught, Your ancient bards fublimely thought,

In vain I look round,

O'er all the well-known ground,

[excel.

My Lucy's wonted footfteps to defcry;
Where oft we us'd to walk;

Where oft in tender talk

We faw the fummer fun go down the sky;

glow?

Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain, Or Aganippe's fount, your fteps detain, Nor in the Thespian valleys did you play; Nor then on Mincio's bank

Beset with ofier's dank,

Nor where Clitumnus* rolls his gentle
stream,

Nor where, through hanging woods,
Steep Aniot pours his floods,
Nor yet where Melest or Iliffus§ fray.
Il does it now beseem,

That, of your guardian care bereft, To dire diftafe and death your darling fhould be left.

Now what avails it, that in early bloom,
When light fantastic toys

Are all her fex's joys,

With you the fearch'd the wit of Greece
and Rome;

And all that in her latter days,
To emulate her ancient praise,
Italia's happy genius could produce;
Or what the Gallic fire

Bright Sparkling could infpire,
By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what, in Britain's ifle,

Moft favour'd with your finile,
The pow'rs of Reafon and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have confpir'd to raise?
Ah! what is now the ufe

Of all those treasures that enrich'd her mind, To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now confign'd!

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
'Tis yours from death to fave,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin fifters, come,
And ftrew with choiceft flow'rs her hal-
low'd tomb;

But foremost thou, in fable vestment clad,
With accents fweet and fad,
Thou plaintive Mufe, whom o'er his Laura's
Unhappy Fetrarch call'd to mourn; [urn
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impaffion'd tear, a more pathetic lay!
Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by fome fweet peculiar
How eloquent in ev'ry look grace!
Thro' her expreffive eyes her foul diftinctly
fpoke!

To every want, and every woe, To guilt itfelf when in diftreis, The balm of pity would impart; And all relief that bounty could bestow! E'en for the kid or lamb, that pour'd its life Beneath the bloody knife,

[to all.

Her gentle tears would fall;
Tears, from sweet Virtue's fource, benevolent
Not only good and kind,

But ftrong and elevated was her mind;
A fpirit that with noble pride
Could look fuperior down

On Fortune's fmile or frown;
That could, without regret or pain,
To Virtue's lowest duty facrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's higheft prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing fhone; nor ever pass'd
The decent bounds that Wisdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modefty, before it caft.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd;
That fcorn'd unjuft Sufpicion's coward fear,
And, without weaknefs, knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when in her fairest days,
Amidft th' acclaim of univerfal praise.

Death came remorfelefs on, and funk her to the
In life's and glory's fresheft bloom, [tomb..
So, where the silent ftreams of Liris glide,
In the foft bofom of Campania's vale,
When now the wint'ry tempefts all are fled,
And genial fummer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rife,
On every bough the golden fruits are feen;
With odours fweet it fills the filing skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th` Idalian
queen:

But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A fudden blait from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual fnows; [and dies.
tender blighted plant fhrinks up its leaves,
Arife, O Petrarch! from th' Elyfian bow'rs,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrofial flow'rs,
Where to thy Laura thon again art join'd;
Arife, and hither bring the filver lyre,
Tun'd by thy fkilful hand.

To the foft notes of elegant defire,
With which o'er many a land

Was fpread the fame of thy difaft'rous love;
To me refign the vocal shell,

And

And teach my forrows to relate
Their melancholy tale fo well,
As may e'en things inanimate, [move.
Rough mountain oaks, and deíert rocks, to pity
What were,alas! thywoes,compar'dtomine?
To thee thy miftrefs in the blissful band
Of Hymen never gave her hand;
The joys of wedded love were never thine.
In thy domestic care

She never bore a share,
Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every fecret grief that fefter'd there: Nor did her fond affection on the bed Offickness watch thee,and thy languidhead Whole nights on her unwearied arm fuftain, And charm away the fenfe of pain: Nor did the crown your mutual flame With pledges dear, and with a father's tender

For my distracted mind
What fuccour can I find?

On whom for confolation fhall I call?
Support me, ev'ry friend;
Your kind affiftance land,
To bear the weight of this oppreffive woe.
Alas! each friend of mine,

My dear departed love, fo much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief
In every other grief,

Are now with your idea fadden'd all:
Each favourite author we together read
My tortur'd memory wounds, and fpeaks of
Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind:
The rolling year its various courfe perform'd
And back return'd again;
Another, and another, fmiling came,
And faw our happiness unchang'd remain.
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:
Our studies, pleasures, taste the fame.

O fatal, fatal stroke!

That all this pleafing fabric Love had rais'd Of rare felicity,

On which even wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, And every schemeof blissourheartshadform'd, With foothing hope for many a future day,

In one fad moment broke!

Yet, O my foul! thy rifing murmurs stay; Nor dare th'all-wife Difpofer to arraign, Or against his fupreme decree With impious grief complain, That allthy full-blown joys atoncefhould fade, Was his moit righteous will-and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to bercontroul,
And, in thefe low abodes of fin and pain,
Her pure exalted foul,

Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain?
No-rather ftrive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity fees,
How frail, how infecure, how flight,

Is every mortal bliss?

Even Love itfelt, if rifing by degrees Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, Whofe fleeting joys fo foon muft end, It does not to its fovereign good ascend. Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, And feek thofe regions of ferene delight, Whofe peaceful path, and ever-open gate, No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss: There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore; There yield up all his pow'r ne'er to divide you

Prefs'd her baby to her bofom, and fadly thus did "Oh! cruel was my father, that shut his door [could fee; And cruel was my mother, that fuch a fight And cruel is the wint'ry wind, that chills my heart with cold; [for gold!

But crueller than all, the lad that left my love

Hush, hush, my lovely baby, and warm thee in [diftreft!

my breaft;

Ah, little thinks thy father how fadly we're For, cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare, He'd fhield us in his arms from this bitter piercing air.

Cold,cold mydearest jewel! thy little life is gone: Oh let my tears revive thee, fo warm that trickle [they fall:

down:

My tears that gufh so warm, oh they freeze before Ah wretched, wretched mother! thou 'rt now bereft of all."

Then down she funk despairing upon the drift[loud her woe:

ed fnow,

And, wrung with killing anguish, lamented She kifs'd her babe's pale lips, and laid it by

her fide;

Then cait her eyes to heaven, then bow'd her

head, and died.