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So to the dark-brow'd wood, or facred mount,
In ancient days, the holy feers retir'd;
And, led in vifion, drank at Siloe's fount,
While rifing ecftafies their boioms fir'd.
Reftor'd creation bright before them rose,

The burning defarts fmil'd as Eden's plains:
One friendly thade the wolf and lambkin chofe;
The flow'ry mountain fung, Mefliah reigns!
Tho' fainter raptures my cold breaft infpire,

Yet let me oft frequent this folemn scene;
Oft to the abbey's fhatter'd walls retire,
What time the moonthine dimly gleams between.
There, where the crofs in heary ruin nods,
And weeping yews o'erfhade the letter'd ftones;
While midnight filence wraps these drear abodes,
And foothes me wandering o'er my kindred
bones;

Let kindled Fancy view the glorious morn,
When from the burfting graves the juft fhall rife,
All Nature finiling; and, by angels borne,

Meffiah's crofs far blazing o'er the fkies!
§ 82. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET.
MOURN, haplets Caledonia, mourn

Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie flaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hofpitable roofs no more
Invite the ftranger to the door;
In fincky ruins funk they lie,
The monuments of crucity.
The wretched owner fees, afar,
His all become the prey of war:
Bethinks him of his babes and wife;
Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life.
Thy fwains are famith'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins thrick in vain;
Thy infants perith on the plain.
What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-fpreading wafte of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praife,
Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe, and merry lay,
No more fhall cheer the happy day:
No focial fcenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No trains but thofe of forrow flow,
And nought be heard but founds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the flain
Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.
Oh baneful caufe, oh fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons against their fathers flood;
The parent thed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's foul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn muft feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring fteel!

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath;
The bleak wind whiftles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of thelter, food, and friend,
She views the thades of night defcend;
And, ftretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Whilft the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Refentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breaft fhall beat;
And, fpite of her infulting foe,
My fympathizing verfe fhall flow:
"Mourn, haplets Caledonia, mourn
"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !""

$83. Ode to Mirth. SMOLLET.
PARENT of joy! heart-eafing Mirth!

Whether of Venus or Aurora born!
Yet Goddess fure of heavenly birth,
Vifit benign a fon of Grief forlorn :
Thy glitt'ring colours gay
Around him, Mirth, difplay;
And o'er his raptur'd sense
Diffufe thy living influence:

So fhall each hill, in purer green array'd,
And flower-adorn'd in new-born beauty glows
The grove fhall fmooth the horrors of the

1hade,

And fireams in murmurs fhall forget to flow.
Shine, Goddefs, fhine with unremitted ray, [day.
And gild (a fecond fun) with brighter beam

Labour with thee forgets his pain,
And aged Poverty can fimile with thee;
If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain,
And weak th' uplifted arm of tyranny.
The morning opes on high
His univerial eye;

And on the world doth pour

our

His glories in a golden fhow'r.
Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hoftileray,
Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn:
The brood obfcene, that own her gloomy

fway,

Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale fhiv'ring ghosts, that dread th'all-cheering

light,

[night. Quick as the lightning's Hafh glide to fepulchral

But whence the gladd'ning beam
That pours his purple ftream
O'er the long prospect wide?
'Tis Mirth. I fee her fit
In majefty of light,

With Laughter at her fide.
Bright-eved Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air,
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltlefs ftrikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affliction's pow'r,
Fear not now wild Paffion's rage;
Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour,,
Save the tardy hand of Age.

Now

Now Mirth hath heard the fuppliant Poct's pray'r No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the troubled air,

$84. Ode to Leven Water. SMOLLET.
ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happieft fwain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure ftream in whofe transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents ftain 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 fcaly 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 eglantine.

Still on thy banks, fo gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen;
And laffes, chanting o'er the pail;
And fhepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And induftry, imbrown'd with toil;
And hearts refolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The bleffings they enjoy to guard.

§ 85. Songe to Ella, Lorde of the Caftel of Bry

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§ 86. Briftowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr
Charles Bawdin.

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 fawe the rudie streakes
Or lyghte eclypfe the greie;

And herde the raven's clokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

"Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, " for, by the Godde
"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 ftate."
Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,
Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe;

flore ynne daies of yore. From CHATTER-Hee journey'd to the caftle-
e-gate,

TON, under the name of Row LEY.

OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,

Alla, the darlynge of futurity,

Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be,
As everlastynge to pofteritye.

Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whose hayres of bloude-
redde hue
[ing due,
Lyche kynge-cuppes braftynge wythe the morn-
Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie,
Upponne the lethale daie,

Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets fhore;
Than dyddit thou furiouse stande,
And bie thie valyante hande
Beefprengedd all the mees wythe gore.
Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of helle
Thoufandes of Dacyanns went;
Bryftowannes, menne of myghte,
Y dar'd the bloudie fyghte,
And actedd deeds full quent.

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

Or whare thou kennft from farre
The dyimali crye of warre,

Orr feeft fomme not ntayne made of corfe of fleyne;

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hee came, his children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,

Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

"O goode Syr Charles!" fayd Carterlone,
Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."
"Speke bold ie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles,
"Whatte fays thie traytor kynge?"

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"I greeve to telle, before yonne fonne
"Does fromme the welkinne flye,
"Hee hath uponne hys honour fworne
"Thatt thou fhalt furelie die."

"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.

"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee 's not,

"I'de fooner die to-daie

"Thanne lyve hys flave, as manie arc,
"Tho' I should lyve for aie."
Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out,

To telle the maior ftraite

To gett all thynges ynne reddynefs
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Thenne

Thenné Maifterr Canynge faughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knce;

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

"To move your clemencye."

Thenne quod the kynge,

"Your tale fpeke out, "You have been much oure friende; "Whatever youre request may bee,

"We wylle to ytte attende.'

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"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,

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The kynge ynne fury fayde;

"Before the ev'ning ftarre doth theene, "Bawdin fhall loofe hys hedde:

66 Juftice does loudlie for hym calle,

"And hee fhall have hys meede :
"Speke, Maifter Canynge! whatte thynge elfe
"Att prefent doc you neede?"

"My nobile liege!" goode Canynge fayde,
"Leave juftice to our Godde,
"And laye the yronne rule afyde;

"Be thyne the olyve rodde.

"Was Godde to ferche our hertes and reines,

"The beft were fynners grete;

"Chrift's vycarr only knowes ne fynne,

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Ynne alle thys mortall ftate.

"Lett mcrcie rule thyne infante reigne,
"'Twylle fafte thye crowne fulle furc;
"From race to race thy familie

"Alle fov'reigus fhall endure:
"But yff wythe bloode ann flaughter thou
"Beginne thy infante reigne,

"Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows Wylle never lonng remayne.”

66

"Canynge, awaic! thys traitour vile

"Has fcorn'd my power and mee; "Howe canft thou thenne for fuch a manne “Intreate my clemencye?”

"My nobile liege! the truly brave

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Wylle val'rous actions prize,

Refpect a brave and nobile mynde,
"Altho' ynne enemies."

"Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n
"That dydd mee beinge gyve,
"I wylle nott tafte a bitt of breade

"Whilft thys Syr Charles dothe lyve,
"By Marie, and all Scinetes ynne Heav'n,
Thys funne fhall be hys lafte."

Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,
And from the prefence pafte.

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.

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

“Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul
"Runns overr att thyne cye;
"Is ytte for my moft welcome doome
"Thatt thou doft child-lyke crye?"
Quod godlie Canynge, “I doe weepe,
"Thatt thou foc foone muft dye.
"And leave thy fonnes and helpless wyfes
"Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.
"Thenne drie the teares thatt out thyne eye
"From godlie fountaines fprynge;
"Dethe I defpife, and alle the pow'r
“Of Edwarde, traytor kynge.

"Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means
"I fhall refigne my lyfe,

"The Godde I ferve wylle foon provydę
"For bothe mye fonnes and wyfe.
"Before I fawe the lyghtfome funne,

66

Thys was appointed mee;

"Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge
"Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee ?

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
"Whan thousands dy'd arounde;
"Whan fmokynge ftreems of crimson bloode
"Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde!

"How dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte,
"That cutte the airie waie,

66

Myghte nott finde paffage toe my harte,
"And clofe myne eyes for aie?

"And fhall I now, for feere of dethe,
"Looke wanne and bee dyfmayde?
"Ne! fromm my herte fie childythe feere,
"Be alle the manne display'd.

"Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende,
"And guarde thee and thye fonne,
"Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,

66

Why thenne hys wylle be donne.

"My honefte friende, my faulte has beene
"To ferve Godde and mye prynce;
"And thatt I no tyme-ferver am,

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My dethe wylle foone convynce.
"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,
"Of parents of grete note;
"My fadre dydd a nobile arms
"Emblazon onne hys cote:

"I make ne doubte butt hee vs gone
"Where foone I hope to goc;
"Where wee for ever fhall bee bleft,
"From oute the reech of woe:

"Hce taught mee juftice and the laws
"Wyth pitie to unite;

“And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe

"The wronge caufe fromm the ryghte:
"Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
"To feede the hungric poore,
"Ne lette mye fervants drive awaic
"The hungrie fromme my doorc:

"And

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Mote willynglic in thye just cause "Doc I retigny brethe.

"Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe ! "Thou wyli kenne peace ne moe; "Whyle Richard's finnes exalt themselves,

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Thye brookes wytae bloude wylie flowe. "Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlic peace,

"And godle Heric's reigne,

“ Thatt you dydd choppe youre cafie daies "For thofe of bloude and peyne? "Whatte tho' I onne a fledde bee drawne, And mangled by a hynde, "I do defve the trayter's pow'r, "Hee can ne haim my mynde; "Whatte tho', uphoifted onne a pole, "Myg lymbes fhail rotte ynne ayre, "And ne ryche monument of braffe

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

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Whyche tyme can't cate awai, “There wythe the fervants of the Lorde Mye name fhall lyve for aie.

66

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Aye fones and lovynge wyfe!

"Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,

"As e'er the month of Male;

"Nor woulde I even wythe to lyve,

86

Wyth my dere wyfe to ftaie.'

Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlic thynge To bee prepar'd to die;

"And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe "To Godde yane heaven to die.”

And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,

And claryonnes to founde;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncying onne the grounde:
And jufte before the officers,

His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dyfmalle dynne.
"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forberg,

Ynne quict lett mee die; "Praie Godde, that ev'ry Chriftian foule Maye looke onne dethe as I.

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"Ah, fweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe, "Wythcute thye lovynge wyfe! "The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, "Ytt cke fhall ende mye lyfe."

And nowe the officers came ynne

To brynge Syr Charles awale, Whee turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,

And thus toe her dydd faic:

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

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

"Thatt I theyre fader runne:

"Florence! fhould dethe thee take-adicu!
"Yee officers, lead onne."

Thenne Florence rev'd as anie madde,
And dydd her treffes tere;

"Oh! ftaic, my husbande lorde! and lyfe!”
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll tyredd oute wyth ravynge loud,

Shee fellen onne the flore;

Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the d re.
Uponne a fledde hec mounted thenne,

Wythe lockes fulle brave and fwete;
Lookes, thatt enthoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the firete.

Before hym went the council-menne,
Yone fcarlette robes and golde,
And raflis fpanglynge ynne the funne,
Muche glorious to beholde :

The Freers of Sein&te Augustyne next
Appeared to the fvghte,

Alle cladd ynne homelie ruffett weedes,
Of godlie monkyth plyghte:

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie pfaume
Motte fweetlie theye dydd chaunt;

Behynde thevre backes fyx mynftrelles came,
Who tun'd the ftrunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;
Echone the bowe dyyd bende,
From refcue of kynge Henries friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bold as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a clothe-layde fledde, Bye two blacke ftedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: Belynde

Behynde hym five-and-twentye moe

Of archers ftronge and ftoute
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route:
Scincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes fyx mynftrelles came,
Who tun'd the ftrunge bataunt:

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

And after them a multitude

Of citizens dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were all full of heddes,
As hce dydd pale alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe croffe,

Syr Charles dydd turne and iaie, “O Thou, thatt faveft manne fromme fynne, "Wafhe mye foule clean thys daic.”

Att the grete mynfter windowe fat

The kynge ynne mycle state,

To fee Charles Bawdin

goe alonge

To hys most welcom fate.

Soon as the fleede drewe nyghe enowe,

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd ftande uppe, And thus hys wordes declare :

"Thou feeft mee, Edwarde! traytour vile! Expos'd to infamic;

66

"But be affur'd, disloyall manne!

"I'm greater nowe thanne thee. "Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, 66 Thou wearcft nowe á crowne; "And haft appoynted mee to dye,

66

By power nott thyne owne.

"Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie; "I have beene dede 'till nowe,

"And foone fhall lyve to weare a crowne

For aie upoane my

browe :

yeares,

"Whylft thou, perhapps for fome few
"Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
"To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
"Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour flave!
"Shall falle onne thy owne hedde."
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Departed thenne the fledde.

Kynge Edwarde's foule rufh'd to hys face;
Hee turn'd his head awaie,

And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd fpeke and faic :

To him that foe-much-dreaded dethe
"Ne ghaftlie terrors brynge,

"Beholde the manne! hec ipake the truthe, "Hee's greater than a kynge!

"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 horses gentlie drewe

goc,

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

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, "Ne quiet you wylle knowe; "Your fonnes and hufbandes fhall be flayne, "And brookes wythe bloude fhalle flowe,

"You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, "Whenne ynne adversitye;

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

Thenne hee, wyth preeftes, uponne hys knees,
A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Befecchynge hym unto hymfelfe
Hys partynge foule to take.

Then kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede
Moft fcemlie onne the blocke;

Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne ftroke!
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the fcaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to washe't awaic,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
The bloudie exe hys bodic fayre
Ynnto foure parties cutte;

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

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

And one from off the caftle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure :

The other onne Scyncte Powle's goode gate,
A dreery fpectacle;

Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe croffe,
Ynne hyghe-ftrccte moft nobile.

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:
Godde profper long our kynge,

And

grant hee may, wyth Bawdin's foule, Ynne heaven Godd's mercie fynge!

§ 87. The Mynftreiles Songe in Ælla, a Tragycal Enterlude. CHATTERTON, &C. Synge untoe my roundelaic,

O droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne noe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge 1 ryver bee;

Running.

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