"

synne,

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
O Thou, thatt savest manne fromme
"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;
"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 beenc 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 saje : "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 precious 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.

66

"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;

Lyke mee, untoe the true cause tycke, "And for the true 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 flowe,
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
Ynnto 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.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe
To the nyghte-mares as theie goe.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gone to hrs deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

See! 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 dedde,

$91. Chorus in Goddwyn, a Tragedie. CHATTERTON, &c. WHAN Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste,

To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde; A gorie anlace by her hange.

She daunced onne the heathe; She hearde the voice of deathe Pale-eyned Affryghte, hys harte of silver hue, In vayne assayled(e) her bosom to acale(); [woe, She hearde onflemned (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, [starre. Hys speere a sonne-beame, and hys sheelde a Alyche (n) twaie (o) 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 (5) wympled (1) gies (x) yue to hys crowne, (ys gon, Hys longe sharpe speere, his spreddyng shedde He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes down. War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld (4), arist (y),

Hys feerie heaulme (2) noddynge to the ave Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyst.

(t) Mantled, covered (u) Guides.

Se

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 Huge heaps of hoary inoulder'd walls.

..

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 summits 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.

Open

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 Quict 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. By GEORGE LORD LYTTLETON.

C

Ipse cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,

Te, dulcis, conjux, te solo in littore secum, Te veniente die, te decedente cancbat." Ar length escap'd from ev'ry human eye, From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care, [share, 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 grief 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, Those beauteouseyes, wherebeaming us'd toshine. Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

stream,

1

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.con

sign'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 flows her hallow'd tomb;'

But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, With accents sweet and sad, [urn Thou plaintive Muse, whom o'er 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 spoke!

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, [agree And uncorrupted Innocence! Tell how to more than manly sense She join'd the soft'ning influence Of inore than feinale tenderness : How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy, Which oft the care of others' good destroy;

Her kindly-melting heart,

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 regret or 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 queen:

But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual snows;
[and dies.
The tender brighted 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,

And