"Canynge, awaie! By Godde in heav'n,
Thatt dydd mee being gyve,

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

"By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne heav'n,
Thys sunne shall be hys laste."
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.

Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne? Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Of all wee mortall menne.

"Saye why, my friende, thie honest soul
Runns over att thyne eye;

Is ytte for my most welcome doome
Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"

Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe
Thatt thou soe soone must dye,
And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe ;
"Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye."

"Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye
From godlie fountaines sprynge;
Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

Whan through the tyrant's welcome means
I shall resigne my lyfe,

The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde
For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,
Thys was appointed mee;
shall mortall manne repyne or grudge
What Godde ordeynes to bee ?

Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
Whan thousands dy'd arounde;
Vhan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde :

Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte, Thatt cutte the airie waie, Lyghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, And close myne eyes for aie?

And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?
e! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,
Bee alle the manne display'd.

"Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, And guarde thee and thye sonne,

Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

"My honest friende, my faulte has beene
To serve Godde and my prynce ;
And thatt I no tyme-server am,
My dethe wylle soone convynce.

"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,
Of parents of grete note;
My fadre dydd a nobile armes
Emblazon onne hys cote:

"I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
Where soone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever shall bee blest,
From oute the reech of woe.

"Hee taughte mee justice and the laws With pitie to unite ;

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
The wronge cause fromm the ryghte:
"Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie poore,
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie
The hungrie fromme my doore:

"And none can saye butt alle mye lyfe
I have hys wordyes kept;
And summ'd the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyghte before I slept.

"I have a spouse, goe aske of her
Yff I defyl'd her bedde;

I have a kynge, and none can laie
Black treason onne my hedde.

"Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd
To leave thys worlde of payne?

"Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce
I shall ne see thye dethe;
Most willynglie ynne thye just cause
Doe I resign my brethe.

"Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe !

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves Thye brookes wyth bloude wylle flowe.

"Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,

And godlie Henrie's reigne,
Thatt you dyd choppe your easie daies
For those of bloude and peyne?

"Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, And mangled by a hynde,

I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,
Hee can ne harm my mynde ;

"Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, And ne ryche monument of brasse

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ;

"Yett ynne the holie book above,

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the servants of the Lorde Mye name shall lyve for aie.

"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne

I leave thys mortall lyfe :
Farewell, vayne worlde, and all that's deare,
Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!

"Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes
As e'er the moneth of Maie;
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie."

Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlie thynge
To bee prepared to die;

And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe
To Godde ynne heav'n to flie."

And nowe the belle began to tolle,
And claryonnes to sound;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

And just before the officers

His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
Ynn quiet lett mee die ;

Praie Godde that ev'ry Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

"Sweet Florence! why these brinie teeres?
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

""Tys butt a journie I shall goe

Untoe the lande of blysse ;

Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
Receive thys holie kysse."

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordes spoke :
"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!
Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:

"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thy necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."

And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd saie:

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;
Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,
And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

"Teache them to runne the nobile race Thatt I theyre fader runne;

Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu ! Yee officers, leade onne."

Thenne Florence raved as anie madde,

And dydd her tresses tere;

"Oh staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!”Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,
Shee fellen onne the flore;

Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the dore.

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
Wythe lookes full brave and swete;
Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.

Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynn scarlett robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde :

The freers of Seincte Augustyne next
Appeared to the syghte,

Alle cladd ynne homelic russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
Moste sweetlie theye dyd chaunt ;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tuned the strunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came,
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of Kynge Henries friends,
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde,

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:

Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe

Of archers stronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone yune hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route:

Scincte Jameses Freers marched next,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt ; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tun'd the strunge bataunt :

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;

And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke easterne princes trick't:

And after them a multitude

Of citizens dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes
As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
"O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Washe mye soule clean thys daie !"

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat
The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys most welcom fate.

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare :

"Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile!
Expos'd to infamie;

Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne !
I'm greater nowe thanne thee.

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou wearest now a crowne;
And hast appoynted mee to dye,
By power nott thyne owne.

"Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie ;
I have been dede 'till nowe,
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
For aie uponne my browe:

"Whylst thou, perhapps, for som 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 thye 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 hedde awaie,

And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd speke and saie:

To hym that soe much dreaded dethe, Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"

Soe lett hym die !" Duke Richard sayde; "And maye echone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe, And feede the carryon crowes."

And nowe the horses gentlie drewe
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
His pretious bloude to spylle.

Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre

Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs

Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre :

And to the people hee dyd saie,
"Beholde, you see me dye,
For servynge loyally mye kynge,
Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe :
Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,

And brookes wythe bloude shall flowe.

"You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge
Whenne ynne adversitye ;

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

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,
A pray❜r to Godde dyd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Thenne, keeelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whych fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke:

CHRISTOPHER SMART was born at Shipbourne, in Kent. Being an eight months child, he had from his birth an infirm constitution, which unfortunately his habits of life never tended to strengthen. His father, who was steward of the Kentish estates of Lord Barnard (afterwards Earl of Darlington), possessed a property in the neighbourhood of Shipbourne of about 3007. a year; but it was so much encumbered by debt that his widow was obliged to sell it at his death at a considerable loss. This happened in our poet's eleventh year, at which time he was taken from the school of Maidstone, in Kent, and placed at that of Durham. Some of his paternal relations resided in the latter place. An ancestor of the family, Mr. Peter Smart, had been a prebendary of Durham in the reign of Charles the First, and was regarded by the puritans as a proto-martyr in their cause, having been degraded, fined, and imprisoned for eleven years, on account of a Latin poem which he published in 1643, and which the high-church party chose to consider as a libel. What services young Smart met with at Durham from his father's relations we are not informed ; but he was kindly received by Lord Barnard, at his seat of Raby Castle; and through the interest of his lordship's family obtained the patronage of the Duchess of Cleveland, who allowed him for several years an annuity of forty pounds. In his seventeenth year he went from the school of Durham to the university of Cambridge, where he obtained a fellowship of Pembroke-hall, and took the degree | of master of arts. About the time of his obtaining his fellowship he wrote a farce, entitled "the Grateful Fair, or the trip to Cambridge," which was acted in the hall of his college. Of this production only a few songs, and the mockheroic soliloquy of the Princess Periwinkle, have been preserved; but from the draught of the plot given by his biographer, the comic ingenuity of the piece seems not to have been remarkable. * He distinguished himself at the university, both by his Latin and English verses among the former was his translation of Pope's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, on the subject of which, and of other versions which he projected from the same author, he had the honour of corresponding with Pope. He also obtained, during several years, the Seatonian prize for poetical essays on the attributes of the Deity. He afterwards printed those compositions, and probably rested on them his chief claims to the name of a

[* See Gray's Works by Mitford, vol. iii. p. 41 and 47.]

poet. In one of them he rather too loftily denominates himself "the poet of his God." From his verses upon the Eagle chained in a College Court, in which he addresses the bird,

"Thou type of wit and sense, confined,

Chain'd by th' oppressors of the mind,"

it does not appear that he had great respect for his college teachers; nor is it pretended that the oppressors of the mind, as he calls them, had much reason to admire the application of his eagle genius to the graver studies of the university; for the life which he led was so dissipated, as to oblige him to sequester his fellowship for tavern debts.

In the year 1753 he quitted college, upon his marriage with a Miss Carnan, the step-daughter of Mr. Newbery the bookseller. With Newbery he had already been engaged in several schemes of authorship, having been a frequent contributor to the "Student, or Oxford and Cambridge Miscellany," and having besides conducted the "Midwife, or Old Woman's Magazine." He had also published a collection of his poems, and having either detected or suspected that the notorious Sir John (formerly Dr.) Hill had reviewed them unfavourably, he proclaimed war with the paper knight, and wrote a satire on him, entitled the Hilliad. One of the bad effects of the Dunciad had been to afford to indignant witlings, an easily copied example of allegory and vituperation. Every versifier, who could echo Pope's numbers, and add an iad to the name of the man or thing that offended him, thought himself a Pope for the time being, and however dull, an hereditary champion against the powers of Dulness. Sir John Hill, who wrote also a book upon Cookery, replied in a Smartiad; and probably both of his books were in their different ways useful to the pastry-cooks. If the town was interested in such a warfare, it was to be pitied for the dearth of amusement. But though Smart was thus engaged, his manners were so agreeable, and his personal character so inoffensive, as to find friends among some of the most eminent men of his day, such as Dr. Johnson, Garrick, and Dr. Burney. Distress, brought on by imprudence, and insanity, produced by distress, soon made him too dependent on the kindness of his friends. Some of them contributed money, Garrick gave him a free benefit at Drury-lane theatre, and Dr. Johnson furnished him with several papers for one of his periodical publications. During the confinement which his

alienation of mind rendered necessary, he was deprived of pen and ink and paper; and used to indent his poetical thoughts with a key on the wainscot of the wall. On his recovery he resumed his literary employments, and for some time conducted himself with industry. Among

the compositions of his saner period, was a verse translation of the Fables of Phædrus, executed with tolerable spirit and accuracy. But he gave a lamentable proof of his declining powers in his translation of the Psalms, and in his "Parables of Jesus Christ, done into familiar verse," which were dedicated to Master Bonnel Thornton, a child in the nursery. He was also committed for debt to the King's Bench prison, within the Rules of which he died, after a short illness, of a dis order in the liver.

IN

THE MOCK PLAY OF "A TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE, OR THE GRATEFUL FAIR."

SOLILOQUY OF THE PRINCESS PERIWINKLE.

The PRINCESS PERIWINKLE sola, attended by fourteen maids of great honour.]

URE such a wretch as I was never born,
By all the world deserted and forlorn :
his bitter-sweet, this honey-gall to prove,
nd all the oil and vinegar of love;

ride, love, and reason, will not let me rest,
But make a devilish bustle in my breast.
o wed with Fizgig, pride, pride, pride denies,
ut on a Spanish padlock, reason cries;

ut tender, gentle love, with every wish complies. ride, love, and reason, fight till they are cloy'd, nd each by each in mutual wounds destroy'd. hus when a barber and a collier fight, he barber beats the luckless collier-white; he dusty collier heaves his ponderous sack, nd, big with vengeance, beats the barber-black. comes the brick-dust man, with grime o'erspread, nd beats the collier and the barber-red; Jack, red, and white, in various clouds are toss'd, ad in the dust they raise the combatants are lost.

If Smart had any talent above mediocrity, it was a slight turn for humour*. In his serious attempts at poetry, he reminds us of those

"Whom Phoebus in his ire

Hath blasted with poetic fire †."

The history of his life is but melancholy. Such was his habitual imprudence, that he would bring home guests to dine at his house, when his wife and family had neither a meal, nor money to provide one. He engaged, on one occasion, to write the Universal Visitor, and for no other work, by a contract which was to last ninety-nine years. The publication stopped at the end of two years. During his bad health, he was advised to walk for exercise, and he used to walk for that purpose to the ale-house; but he was always carried back.

O, cruel fate! what barbarous hand,
What more than Gothic ire,

At some fierce tyrant's dread command,
To check thy daring fire

Has placed thee in this servile cell,
Where discipline and dullness dwell,

Where genius ne'er was seen to roam;
Where every selfish soul's at rest,
Nor ever quits the carnal breast,

But lurks and sneaks at home!

Though dimm'd thine eye, and clipt thy wing,
So grov'ling! once so great;
The grief-inspired Muse shall sing

In tenderest lays thy fate.
What time by thee scholastic pride
Takes his precise pedantic stride,

Nor on thy mis'ry casts a care,

• An instance of his wit is given in his extemporary spondaic on the three fat beadles of the university:

Pinguia tergeminorum abdomina bedellorum.

[† See however an extract made by Mr. Southey from his "Song of David," in the Quarterly Review, vol. xi. p. 497.

He sung of God the mighty source
Of all things, the stupendous force

On which all things depend:

From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes,
All period power and enterprise,

Commence and reign and end.

The world, the clustering spheres He made,
The glorious light, the soothing shade,

Dale, champaign, grove and hill;

The multitudinous abyss
Where secrecy remains in bliss,
And wisdom hides her skill.

Tell them, I AM Jehovah said

To Moses, while earth heard in dread,
And smitten to the heart,

At once above, beneath, around,
All Nature, without voice or sound,
Replied, O Lord, THOU ART!

This Smart when in a state of insanity indented with a key on the wainscot of a madhouse. Poor Nat. Lee when on the verge of madness made a sensible saying, "It is very difficult to write like a madman, but very easy to write like a fool!]