ON

$59. Ole to Leven Water. SMOLLET.
N Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happitft fwain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.
Pure ftream! in whofe tranfparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents fain thy limpid fource,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That fweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy cryftal flood:
The fpringing trout, in fpeckled pride;
The falmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthlefs pike, intent on war;
The filver eel and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglautine.

Stili on thy banks, fo gaily green,
May num'ious herds and flocks be feen;
And laffes, chanting o'er the pail;
And thepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts refolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The blettings they enjoy to guard.

$90. Songe to Alla, Lorde of the Caftel of Brylowe yane daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLEY.

OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,
Ella, the darlynge of futurity,
Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be,
As everlastynge to pofteritye.

Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whofe hayres of bloude[ing due,

Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of helle
Thoufandes of Dacyanns went;
Bryftowannes, menne of myghte,
Ydar'd the bloudie fyghte,
And actedd deeds full quent.

And neighe to be amenged the poyntedd speers
Orr ynne blacke armoure ftaulke arounde
Embattel'd Bryftowe, once thie grounde,
And glowe ardurous onn the Caftle steeres;
Or fierye round the mynfterr glare;
Let Brystowe ftylle be made thie care;
Guarde yit fromme foemenne & confumyrgefir.
Lyche Avones ftreme enfyrke ytte rounde,
Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde,
Tylle ynne one flame all the whole worlde expr

Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att refte)
Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth befte,
Whetherr upponne the bloude-embrewedd pleyne,

Or whare thou kennft from farre
The dyfmall crve of warre,

Or fecft fomme mountayne made of corfe of fleyne;
Orr feeft the hatchedd ftede,
Ypraunceynge o'er the mcde,

3

§ 91. Briftowe Tragedie, or, The Dette of Charles Bardin.

CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLEY. THE featherd fongfter chaunticleer Had wounde hys bugle horne, And told the carlie villager The commynge of the morne ;

Kynge Edwarde fave the rudie ftreakes
Of lyghte eclypfe the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daic.

"Thou 'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godle, "That fyttes enthron'd on hyghe, "Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine, "To-daie fhall furelie die."

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

His Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; "Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie

"Hee leaves thys mortall state." Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the caftle-gate,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hee came, his children twaine,
And cke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

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goode Syr Charles !" fayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."

Speke boldiie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles, "Whatte fays thie traytour kynge?"

"I greeve to telle: Before yonne fonne "Does fromme the welkinne five,

Hee hath uponne hys honour fworne "Thatt thou thalt furelie dic."

Wee all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Of thatte I'm not affearde:

"What bootes to lyve a little space? "Thanke Jefu, I'm prepar'd.

Thenne Maisterr Canynge faugthe the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee;

< I'm come," quod hee, " unto your grace

"To move your clemencye."

My nobile liege! all my request Ys for a nobile knyghte, “Who, tho' may hap he has donne wronge, "He thoghte ytte ftylle was ryghte: "Hee has a fpoufe and children twaine, "Alle rewyn'd are for aie; "Yff thatt you are refolv'd to lett "Charles Bawdin die to daie." "Speke nott of fuch a traytour vile," The kynge ynne fury fayde;

Before the ev'ning ftarre doth fheene, "Bawdin fhall loofe hys hedde: "Juftice des loudlie for hym calle,. "And hee hall have hys meede:

Speke, Maifter Canynge! whatte thynge elfe "Att prefent doc you neede ?"

66

My nobile licge !" goode Canynge fayde, "Leave juftice to our Godde, And laye the yronne rule alyde; "Be thyne the olyve rodde.

"We all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne? "Dethe ys the fure, the certaine fate "Of all wee mortall menne.

With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,
And fatt hymm downe uponne a stoole,

And teares beganne to flowe.

Runns overr att thyne eye; "Is ytte for my moft welcome doome "Thatt thou doft child-lyke crye?"

"I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
"Where foone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever thall bee bleft,
"From oute the reech of woe:
"Hee taught mee juftice and the laws
"Wyth pitic to unite;

"And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
"The wronge caufe from the ryghte:
"Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie poore,
"Ne lette mye fervants drive awaie

"The hungrie fromme my doore:
I i3

"And

"And none can faye, butt all mye lyfe "I have hys wordyes kept; "And fumi'd the actyonns of the daie "Eche nyghte before I flept. "I have a spouse, goe afke of her "Yff I defyl'd her bedde? "I have a kynge, and none can laie "Blacke treason one my hedde. "Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,

"Fromm Hefhe I dydd refrayne; "Whie fhould I thenne appeare difimay'd "To leave thys woride of payne? "Ne hapless Henrie I rejoyce,

"I fhalle ne tee thye dethe; "Mofte willinglie in tlave juft caufe "Doe I refiga my brethe.

"Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe!

"Thou wilt kenne peace ne moe;
"Whyle Richard's fonnes exalt themfelves,
"Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.
"Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,
"And godiie Henrie's reigne,

"Thatt you dydd choppe your eafie daies
"For thofe of bloude and peyne?
"Whatte tho' I onne a fledde bee drawne,
"And mangled by a hynde,
"I do defye the traytour's pow'r,
"Hee can ne harm my mynde;
"Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole,

“Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, "And ne ryche monument of braffe

"Charles Bawdin's name fhall bear; "Yet ynne the holie booke above,

66

"Whyche tyme can't eate awai, "There wythe the fervants of the Lorde Mye name fhall lyve for aic. "Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne "I leve thys mortall lyfe ; "Farewell, vayne worlde, and alle that's deare, "Mye fonnes and lovynge wyfe !

"Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,

66

"As c'er the month of Maie; "Nor woulde I even wythe to lyve, Wyth my dere wyfe to ftaie." Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlie thynge To bee prepar'd to die;

And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe "To Godde ynne heaven to flie."

And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to founde;
Syr Charles hee herde the horfes feete
A-prauncying onne the grounde
And jufte before the officers,

Sweet Florence! why thefe brinie teeres? "Theye wafhe my foule awaie, And almost make mee wythe for lyfe, "With thee, fweete dame, to ftaie. “'Tys but a journie I fhalle goe "Untoe the lande of blyffe; "Nowe, as a proofe of hufbande's love, "Receive thys holie kyffe." Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her faie, Tremblynge thefe wordyes fpoke, Ah, crue e Edwarde! bloudie kynge! "My herte ys welle nyghe broke: "Ah, fweete Syr Charles why wylt thou gee, Wythoute thye lovynge wife! "The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, "Ytt eke fhall ende mye lyfe."

His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,

Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. "Sweet Florence! nowe I praic forbere, "Ynne quiet lett mee die; "Praic Godde, that ev'ry Clariftian foule 'Maye looke onne dethe as I.

46

And nowe the officers came ynne

To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Who turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,

And thus toe her dydd faie: "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

"Trufte thou ynne Godde above, "And teache thye fonnes to feare the Lorde, "And ynne theyre hertes hym love: "Teache them to runne the nobile race "Thatt I theyre fader runne:

"Florence thould dethe thee take-adieu! "Yee officers, lead onne."

Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,
And dydd her tresses tere;

"Oh! ftaie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe!" Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

The Freers of Seincte Auguftyne next
Appeared to the fyghte,
Alle cladd ynne homelie ruffett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:

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

Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle! The exe dydd glyfterr ynne the funne, Hys pretions bloude to fpylle.

Syr Charles dydd uppe the fcaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd in the bloudie warre:
And to the people hee dydd faie,
"Beholde you fee mee dye
"For fervynge loyally mye kynge,
"Mye kynge moft rightfullie.

As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
"Ne quiet you wylle knowe;
Your fonnes and husbandes fhall be flayne,
"And brookes wythe bloude fhalle Howe.
You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,
"Whenne ynne adversitye;

Lyke mee, untoe the true caufe ftycke,
And for the true caufe dye."

$93. Chorus in Goddwyn, a Tragedie. CHATTERTON, &c.

WHAN Freedom, drefte yn blodde-fteyzed

vette,

To everie knyghte her warre-forge furge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spreadt; A gorie anlace by her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe; She hearde the voice of deathe; Pale-eyned Affryghte, hys harte of fylver hue, In vayne affayled her bofome to acale 6 ; She hearde onflemed 7 the fhriekynge voice of woe, And fadneffe vnne the owlette thake the dale. She thooke the burled & fpeere, On hie the jefte 9 her fheelde, Her foemen 10 all appere, And flizze 11 along the feelde, Power, wythe his heafod 12 ftraught 13 ynto the fkyes,

Hys fpeere a fonne-beame, and his fhcel de a starre, Alyche14 twaie15brendeyng 16 gronfyres 17 rols hys eyes,

war.

Chaftes iS with hys yronne feete, and foundes to
She fyttes upon a recke,
She bendes before hys fpeere,
She ryfes from the shocke,
Wieldyng her own yn ayre.
Harde as the thonder dothe the drive ytte on,
Wytte fcillye 19 wympled 20 gies 21 ytte to hys
[ys gun,
Hys longe fharpe fpeere, hys fpreddyng theelce
He falles, and fallynge rolleth thoufandes down.
War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld 22,
arist 23,

crowne,

Hys feeric heaulme 24 noddynge to the ayre, T'enne bloddie arrowes ynne his ftreynynge fyfe

DYER.

$94. Grongar Hill.
SILENT Nymph! with curious eye,
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Bevend 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 sky,
Grongar Hill invites my fong,
Draw the landfcape bright and ftrong;
Grongar! in whofe moffy cells,
Sweetly mufing Quiet dwells;
Grongar! in whofe filent fhade,
For the modeft Mufes made,