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Behynd hyme five-and-twentye moe

Of archers stronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route ; .
Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backs syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt :

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deckt;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Easterne princes trickt:

And after them a multitude

Of citizens dydd thronge;

The wyndowes were all full of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
"Thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne,
"Wash maye soule clean thys daye."
Aft the grete mynster windowe sat
The kynge ynn mycle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys most welcom fate.

Soon as the sledde drewe nygh enowe,
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare :
"Thou seest mee, Edwarde!, traytouṛ vile!
Expos'd to infanie;

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"But be assur'd, disloyall manne!

"I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,


Thou wearest nowe a crowne, "And hast appoynted mee to dye, "By power nott thyne owne. "Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie; "I have beene dede, till nowe,

"And soon shall lyve to weare a crowne


"For aie uponne my browe:

'Whylst thou, perhapps for some few yeares, "Shalt rule thys fickle lande

"To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule


Twixt kynge and tyrant hande :

"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave! "Shall falle onne thy owne hedde." Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge Departed thenne the sledde.

Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face;
Hee turn'd hys head awaie,
And to hys broder Gloucester
Hee thus dydd speke and saie:
"To him that soe-much-dreaded dethe

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, "Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, "Hee's greater than a kynge!

"So lett hym die!" Duke Richard sayde;
"And maye echone our foes
"Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie exe,
"And feede the carryon crowes."
And now the horses gentlie drewe

Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle!
The exe dydd glisterr ynne the sunne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.
Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gain'd in the bloudie warre:
And to the people hee dydd saie
"Beholde you see mee dye
"For servynge loyally mye kynge,


Mye kynge most rightfullie.

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, "Ne quiet you wylle knowe;

"Your sonnes and husbandes shall be slayne, "And brookes withe bloude shalle flowe. "You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, "Whenne ynne adversitye;

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Lyke mee, untoe the true cause tycke,
And for the trae cause dye."

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne his knees,
A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Then kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede
Most seemlie onne the blocke
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke!
And oute the bloude beganne to Aowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
And tears, enow to washe 't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
The bloudie exe hys bodie fayre
Yanto foure parties cutte;

And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde
Upon a pole was putte.

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
Que onné the mynster-tower,

And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure:

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,
A dreery spectacle;

His hedde was plac'd onne the hygh crosse,
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;
Godde prosper long our kynge,
And grant hee may, wyth Bawdin's soule,
Ynne heaven Godd's mercie synge!

$ 90. The Mynstrelles Songe in Ella, a Tragycal Enterlude. CHATTERTON, &C. `

O! SYNGE untoe my roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge (a) ryver bee.

(a) Running.

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Black hys cryne (1) as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode (c) as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the moruynge 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 caun bee,
Defte his taboure, codgelle stole,
O hee lys bie the wyllowe-tree.
Mie love ys deede,

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 synge,
To the nyghte-mares as theie goe.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gone to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Sce! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
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 scyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde,

Mie love ys deɗde,

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

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

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

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,

Drayne my hartys blødde awaie;

Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daic.
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 damselle spake, and dyed.

(b) Hair.

(c) Complexion. (d) Water-flags. (e) Endeavoured. (1) Freeze.

(g) Undismayed.

$91. Chorus in Goddwyn, a Tragedie. CHATTERTON, &c.

WHAN Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned


To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, 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-cyned Affryghte, hys harte of silver hue, In vayne assaylede) her bosom to acale(f); [woe, She hearde onfleined (g) the shriekynge voice of And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale, She shooke the burled (h) speere, On hie she jeste (i) her sheelde, Her foemen (j) all appere, And flizze (k) along the feelde.

Power, wythe his heafod (1) straught (m) ynto the skyes,


Hys speere a sonne-beame, and hys sheelde a Alyche (n) twaie (0) brendeyng (p) gron fyres (q) rolls hys eyes,

[to war.

Chaftes (r) with hys yronne feete, and soundes
She syttes upon a rocke,
She bendes before hys speere
She ryses from the shocke,
Wieldyng her own yn ayre.

Harde as the thonder dothe she drive ytte on, Wytte scillye (s) wympled (1) gies (u) ytte to hys crowne,

(ys gan, Hys longe sharpe speere, his spreddyng sheelde He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes down. War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld (2),

arist (y),

Hys feerie heaulme (z) noddynge to the ayre, Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyst.

$94. Grongar Hill. DYER.

SILENT Nymph! with curious eye,
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale;
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phoebus riding high,'
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar! in whose mossy cells,
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar! in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,

(h) Armed, pointed,~(n) Like. (i)Hoisted on high, raised.(o) Two. (i) Foes, enemies. (P) Flaming. (k) Fly. (9) Meteors. (1) Head. (r) Beats, stamps. (m) Stretched.

in) Closely.

(t) Mantled, covered (u) Guides. (*) Armed. (y) Arose. (*) Helmet.

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

Sat upon a flow'ry bed,

With my hand beneath my head,
While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind;
And groves and grottos, where I lay,
And vistas shooting 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 summits from the skies,

And lessen as the others rise.

Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.
Now I gain the mountain's brow ;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors, intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow;
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires:
Half his beams Apollo sheds
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 sable yew:
The slender 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, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood
And ansient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps
So both in safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.

"Tis now the raven's bleak abode,
"Tis now th' apartment of the toad ;
And there the fox securely feeds,
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Hage heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.

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Yet time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state:
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,

A sun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run Thro' woods and meads, in shade and sun! Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, Wave succeedingwave, they go, A various journey to the deep, Like human life to endless sleep! Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, To instruct our wand'ring thought, Thus she dresses and gay, green

To disperse 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 summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the shady 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 prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step, methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem:
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass
As yon suminits soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way;
The present 's still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see !
Content me with a humble shade,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid :
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfuines his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

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


Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor:
In vain ye search, she is not there;
Ju vain ye search the domes of Care!
Grass and flower Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murm'ring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

§ 93. A Monody on the Death of his Lady.

Ipse cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,
Te, dulcis, conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.'"
Ar length escap'd from ev'ry human eye,
From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring shade,
This lone retreat for tender sorrow inade,
I now may give my burthen'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of griet surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love,
Can on the ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now, with fond delight,
And taste refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Thosebeauteouseyes, wherebeaming us'd toshine.
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her despising, when she deigned to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring;
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more:
The nightingale was mute,
And ev'ry shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.

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

For death has stopp'd that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes [excel.

In vain I look around,

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry:
Where oft we us'd to walk;

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the summer sun go down the sky;

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wide-stretch'd prospects ample

No more my mournful eye"

Can aught of her espy,


But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is lost.
You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The poRip of cities, and the pride of courts.
Ider imodest beauties shunn'd the public eye:
To your sequester'd dales,

And flower-embroider'd vales,
From an admiring world she chose to fly.
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every passion from her breast;

But those, the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who like the little playful fawns,
Where wont to trip along these verdant

By your delighted mother's side, [lawns,
Who now your infant steps shall guide?
Ah! where is now thehand, whose tender care,
To every virtue would have forin'd your youth,
And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of

O loss beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone,
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with

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

From follyandfrom vice their helpless age to save?
Now, she, alas! is gone,

Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore;

From these fond arms, that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual love,

To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favoring pow'r, Aōnian

Couldnot,alas! your power prolong her date;
For whom so oft,in these inspiring shades,
Or under Camden'smoss-cladmountains hoar,
You open'd all your sacred store;
Whate'er your antient sages taught,
Your antient bards sublimely thought
And bade her raptur'd breast with all your
spirit glow?

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

Beset with osier's dank,

• The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.


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Nor where, through hanging woods,
Steep Anio pours his floods,

Nor yet where Meles ↑ or lissus § stray.
Ill does it now beseem,

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire disease and death your darling should
be left.

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

Are all her sex's joys,

With you she search'd the wit of Greece
and Rome;

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

By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
́Or what, in Britain's isle,

Most favor'd with your smile,
The pow'rs of Reason and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?
Ah! what is now the use

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

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
"Tis yours from death to save,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin sisters, come,
And strew with choicest flow's her hal-
low'd tomb;'

But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad,
With accents sweet and sad, [urn
Thou plaintive Muse, whom oler bis Laura's
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;

O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay!
Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar;
How eloquent in ev'ry look [grace!
Thro' her expressive eyes her soul distinctly

Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
Left all the taint of modish vice behind,
And make each charm of polish'd courts
With candid Truth's simplicity,


And uncorrupted Innocence !

Tell how to more than manly sense

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To every want, and every woe,
To guilt itself when in distress,
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,

Her gentle tears would fall;
[to all.
Tears, from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent
Not only good and kind,

But strong and elevated was her mind !
A spirit that with noble pride
Could look superior down

On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could, without regretor pain,
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice,
Or Interest or Anbition's highest prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain,
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffensive light


All pleasing shone; nor ever pass'd.
The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modesty, before it cast,
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd ;
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And, without weakness, knew to be sincere.
Such Lucy was, when in her fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise.

In life's and glory's freshest bloom, [tomb.
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the
So, where the silent streams of Liris glide,
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintry tempests all are Acd,
And genial summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rise,
On ev'ry bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odors sweet it fills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian

But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual snows;
[and dies.
The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves,
Arise, O Petrarch! from th' Elysian bow'rs,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,

And fragrant with ambrosial flow'rs,

Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,
Tun'd by thy skilful hand.

To the soft notes of elegant desire,
With which o'er many a land

Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;
To me resign the vocal shell,

The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.

The Anio runs Through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace a villa,

The Meles is a river of lonia, from whence Homer, capped to be torn on it 'banks, is called

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