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Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,

I thalle ne fee thye dethe; Meft willynglie in thye just cause 'Doc I refign my brethe.

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

Thye, brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. 1 Saie were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,

And godlie Henrie's reigne, Thatt you dydd choppe youre eafie daies For those of bloude and peyne? Whatte tho' I onne a fledde bee drawne, And mangled by a hynde, I do defye the traytor's pow'r,

Hee can ne harm my mynde; • What tho', uphoifted onne a pole, Mye lymbes fhall rotte ynn ayre, And ne ryche monument of brasse Charles Bawdin's name fhall bear; 'Yett ynne the holie booke above,

Whyche tyme can't eat awai,

• There, wythe the fervants of the Lorde, My name fhall lyve for aie.

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Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne
I leve thys mortall lyfe:

Farewell, vayne worlde, and all that's deate,
'Mye fonnes and lovynge wyfe!
Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

As e'er the monthe of Maie;

Nor woulde I even wyfhe to lyve,

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5 Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.'

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

"And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe
"To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie."
And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to founde;

Syr Charles he herde the horfes feete
A prauncyng on 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 forbere,
Ynne quiet lett mee die;

Praie Godde, that ev'ry Chriftian foule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

• Sweet Florence! why thefe brinie teeres?

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Theye wafhe my foule awaie,

And almost make mee wyfhe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, fweete dame, to ftaie.

'Tys but a journie I fhalle goe

Untoe the lande of blyffe;
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
Receive thys holic kysse.'

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her faie,
Tremblynge, thefe wordyes thee spoke,
"Ah, crucie Edwarde! bloudie kyngel
"My herte ys well nyghe broke:

"Ah, fweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goz,


Wythoute 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 awaie,
Whoe 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! thou'd dethe thec take-adieu!
'Yee officers, lead onne.'

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

"Oh! ftaie, my husbande! lorde and lyfe!"
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud,

Shee fellen onne the flore;

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

Wythe lookes fulle brave and fwete;
Lookes, thatt enfhoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne fcarlette robes and golde,
And taffils fpanglynge ynne the funne,
Muche glorious to beholde :
The Freers of Seinete Auguftyne next
Appeared to the fyghte,

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

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie pfaume
Mofte fweetlie theye dydd chaunt;
Bebynde theyre backes fyx mynftrelles came,
Who tun'd the ftrunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From refcue of kynge Henric's friends
Syr Charles forr to defende.

Bold as a lyon caine Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a clothe-layde fledde,
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:
Behynde hym five-and-twentye moe
Of archers ftronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowc echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route:

Seinete Jameses Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes fyx mynftrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt :

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

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And after them a multitude

And to the people hee dydd saie; Of citizens dydd thronge;

• Beholde you see mee dve, The windowes were all full of heddes,

• For servynge loyally mye kynge, As hce dydd pafle alonge.

. Mye kynye moft rightfullie. And whenne hee came to the hyghe crose, • As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, Syr Charles dvdd turne and saie,

Ne quiet you wylle knowe; • O'Thou, thatt saveit manne fromme synne,

• Your fonnes and husbandes fhalle be Nayne, • Washe mye foule clean thys daie.'

* And brookes wyth bioude thalle flowe. Att the grete mynster windowe fat

• You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, , The kynge ynne mycle state,

• Whenne ynne adversitye; To fee Charles Bawdin goe alonge

* Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, To hys most welcom fáte.

• And for the true cause dye.' Soon as the fledde drewe nyghe enowe;

Thenne hee, wyth prestes, uponne hys knees, : That Edsvarde hee myghte hcare,

A pray'r to Godde dydd make, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd ftande uppc,

-Befeechynge hyin unto hymfelfe And thus hys wordes declare:

Hys partynge foule to take. • Thou seest mee, Edwarde! traytour vilu ! Then, kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede Expos’d to infamie;

Most seernlie onne the blocke; • But te assurd, dilloyall manne!

Whyche fromme hy's bodie fayre at once I'm giraterr nowe thannc thce.

The able heddes-inannc stroke! • Bye foule proceedvngs, murdre, bloude,

And oute the bloude begapne to flowe, i Thou weareft nowe a crownc;

And rounde ihe scaffolde twyne; • And hast appoynted inee to dye,

And reares, enow to washe't awaie, By power nott thync owne.

Dyed fowe fromme each mann's eyne. • Thou thynkelt I shall dye to-laie;

The bloudic exe hys bodie fayre "I have beene dede tille nowe,

Ynnto foure parties cutte; • And foone thall lvve to weare a crowne

And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, • For aie uponne my browe,

Uponne a pole was putte. • Whilft thou, perhapps for some few yeares,

One parte dydd rotte on Kynwalph-hylle, • Shalt rule thys fickle lande,

One on ne the mynfter-tower, To lett thein knore howe wyde thc rulc

And one from off the cattle-gate ''Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:

The crowen dydd devoure : • Thve pow'r unjust, thou trajtour flare !

The other onne Seynete Powle's goode gate • Shall falle onne thy owne heddle.'-

A dreery spectacle; Fronm out the hearyng of the kynge

Hys hedde was plac'd oniric the hyghe crosfejr Departed thenne the fledúc.

Inne hyghc-streete moft nobile. Kunge Edwarde's foule ruhid to hy's face;

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate : Iloc turu'd his head awaic,

Godde profper long our kynge, And to his broder Gloucester

And grant hee may, wyth Bawdin's foule, Hee thus dydd spoke and faic:

Ynne heav'n Godd's inercic synge ! To hymn that foe-much-drcaded dethe

“ Ne ghaftlie tcrrors brynge: “ Beholde the manne! heefpake the truthe;

$ 100. The Miniches Sorge in Ælla; “ Hee's greater than a kynge!"

a Tragjial Enterlude. . So lett hym dic!' Duke Richard fayde;


. • And maye echone our focs • Bende downe theyr neckes to bloudie cxe, O

Synge unloc my roundelaic, • And fee 'e the carryon crowes.'

O droppe thu brvnie teare wythe mee!

Dauncc ne mve atte hallie daie, And now the horses geotlic drevye

Lycke a reynyn e i ryver bee; Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle!

Mic love ys dedde, The exe dydd glyfterr ynne the funne,

Gene co hys death-bedde,
Hys pretious bloode to spylte.

Al under the wyllowe trec.
Syr Charles dydil uppe the scaffold goe, Blacke hys cryne 2 as the wyntere nyght, .
As uppe a gilded carre

Whyte hys rode 3 as the fommer inose,
Of victorye, by val’rous chiefs

Rodde hy's face as the mornyngelsghre,
Gayn’d in the bloudic warre:

Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
i Running
2 Pairo 3 Complexion.


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Mie love ys dedde,

$ 101. Chorus in Goddyn, a Tragedie. Gonnc to hys deathe-beddc,

CHATTERTON, &c. Al under the syllowe tree.

WHAN Freedom, dreste yn bloddc-fteyned Swote hys tongue as the throstle's note,

velte, Quycke ynne daunce as thought can bec,

To everie knyghte hier warre-fonge sunge, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,

Upon her hedde wylde wedes were predde; 0; hee lys bie the wyllowe tree:

A gorie anlace by her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hy's deathe-bedde,

She hcarde the voice of deathe;
Alle underre the wyllowe tree:

Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of Tylver huc,

In vayne assayled 2 her bofome to acale 3 ; Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,

She hearde onflemed 4 the thrickynge voice of
In the briered dell belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe fynge And sadnesse ynne the owlet shake the dalo.
To the nyghte-mares as hcie goe;

She shooke the burled 5 fpcere,
Mie love ys dedde,

On hie the jeste 6 her shecide,

Her foeinen 7 all appere,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree :

And fizze 8 along the feelde.

Power, wythe, his heafod 9 straug'it 10 ynto See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;

the skyes,

(ftarre, Whyterre ys mie true love's throude;

Hys speere á fonne-beame, and his feelde a Whyterre yanne


Alyche 11 twaie 12 brendcyng 13 gonfyres 14 Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;

rolls hys eyes,

[war. Mie love ys dedde,

Chaftes 15 with hys yronne fecte and foundes to
Gonne to hys deathe- bedde,

Shę syttes upon a rocke,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

She bendes before hys speere,

She ryses from the shocke, Hecre, upon mie true love's grave,

Wieldyng her own yn ayre. Schalle the baren Acurs be layde,

Harde as the thunder dothe the drive ytte on, Nee one hallie feyncte to save

Wytte fcillye 16 wympled 17 gies 18 ytte to hys Al the celness of a mayde.

crowne, Mie love ys dedde,

Hys longe tharpe fpcere, his spreddyng theelde Gonne to hys death-bedde,

He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes down. Alle under the wyllowe tree.

War, goare-faced war, bic cnvie burld 19 Wythe mie hondes P'll dent the brieres Hys feerie heauline 21 noddynge to the ayre, Rounde hvs hallie corse to gre;

Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge Duphantc fairie, lyghte vour fyres,

fyfte Heere mic boddie Itylle fchalle bce.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys dcath-bodde,
Al under the wyllowe tree,

§ 102. Grongar Hill. Dyer. Comme, wythe acorac-coppe & thorne,

SILENT Nymph' with curious cyc,

Who the purple ev'ning lic Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;

On the mountain's lonely van, Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne,

Beyond the noise of busy man,
Daunce bie nere, or feaste by daie.

Painting fair the form of things,
Mic love ys

While the yellow linnet fings,
Gonne to lys deathe-bedde,

Or the tuneful nightingale
Al under the wyllowe trec.

Charins the forest with her tale;

Com , with all thy various hues, Water wytches, crowncde wythe reytes 1,

Come, and aid thy lifter Mule. Bere mce to 'yer leathalle tyde.

Now, while Phæbus riding high, I dic; I comme; mie true love waytes.

Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed :

Grongar Hill invite my song,
Mie love ys dedde,

Draw the landicape bright and strong;
Gonne to hys deathe-beilde,

Grongar ' in whole molly cells,
Al under thc wyllowe tree.

Sweetly muling Quict dwells;

[ys gon,

arist 20,

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8 Fly.

I Water-Aags. 2 Endeavoured. 3 Freeze. 6 Hoilied on high, raifed. 7 Foes, enemies. 11 Like.

12 Two. 13 Flaming. 14 Meteor 7 Mantled, covered. 18 Guides.

19 Arined.

4 Undisinayed. 5 Armed, pointed. 9 Head.

I Sirtit d. 15 Beats, ftainps, 20 Arose.

21. Helmit.

Grongar 1

16 Cloily.


Grongar! in whofe filent fhade,
For the modeft Mufes made,
So oft I have, the ev'ning ftill,
At the fountain of a rill
Sat upon a flow'ry bed,

With my hand beneath my head,

While ftray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From houfe to houfe, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd fides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meeds behind

And groves and grottocs, where I lay,
And viftoes fhooting beams of day.
Wide and wider fpreads the vale,
As circles on a finooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later of all height,
Withdraw their fummits from the skies,
And leffen as the others rife.
Still the profpect wider fpreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens ftill,
And finks the newly-rifen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landfcape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours, intervene;
But the gay, the open fcene
Does the face of Nature fhew
In all the hues of heaven's bow,
And, fwelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the fight.
Old caftles on the cliff's arife,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rufhing from the woods, the fpires
Scem from hence afcending fires:
Half his beams Apollo fheds
On the yellow mountain heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumber'd rife,
Beautiful in various dies:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The vellow beech, the fable yew;
The flender 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, fteep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring eye,
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His fides are cloth'd with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That caft an awful look below;
Whofe ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a fafety 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 fecurely feeds,
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, mofs, and weeds;

While ever and anon there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet time has feen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has feen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state:
But tranfient is the fmile of Fate!
A little rule, a little fway,

A fun-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 fhade and fun!
Sometimes fwift, fometimes flow,
Wave fucceeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless fleep!
Thus is Nature's vefture wrought,
To inftruct our wand'ring thought;
Thus fhe dreffes green and gay,
To difperfe our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landfcape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody vallies, warm and low;
The windy fummit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!

The pleasant feat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the fhady 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 fouthern fide,
Where the profpect opens wide,
Where the ev'ning gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eyel
A ftep, methinks, may pafs the ftream,
So little diftant dangers feem!
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd thro' Hope's deluding glass.
As yon fummit's foft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the fame coarfe way;
The prefent's still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I fee:
Content me with an humble fhade,
My paffions tam'd, my wifhes laid;
For, while our withes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the foul:
'Tis thus the bufy beat the air,
And mifers gather wealth and care.
Now, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton zephyr fings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the thepherd charms his fheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with mufic fill the fky,
Now, c'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts! be great who will;

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Search for Peace with all your skill;

Where oft we us’d to walk; Open wide the lofty door;'

Where oft, in tender talk, Seek her on the marble floor:

We saw the summer sun go down the sky; In vain ye search, she is not there;

Nor by yon fountain's side, In vain ye search the domes of Care!

Nor where its waters glide Grals and Powers Quiet treads,

Along the valley, can shę now be found : On the meads and nountain heads,

In all the wide-itretch'd prospect’s ample bound, Along with Pleasure close ally'd,

No more my mournful eye Ever by cach other's ride;

Can aught of her efpy, And often, by the murm’ring rill,

But the fad facred carth where her dear relics lie. Hears the thruth, while all is still,

O shades of Hagley, where is now


boast? Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

Your bright inhabitant is loft.
You lhe preferr’d to all the gay


Where female vanity might wish to shine, 103.

A Monody on the Death of his Lady. The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts, By George Lord LYTTLETON.

Her modeft beauties thunnid the public cye:

To your fequefter'd daies Ipse cava fulans agrum tefiitudine amorem,

And flower-embroider'd vales Te duliis conjux, le folo in littore Serum,

From an admiring world the chole to Ay. Te veniente die, le decedente cancbat.'

With Nature there retir'd and Nature's God,

The filent paths of wisdom trou, AT length ofcap'd from ev'ry human cycom

And banith'd ev'ry paflion from her breast From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care, [thare, But those, the gentlest and the left, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a

Whole holy names with energy divine Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;

The virtuous heart enliven and improve, Beneath the gloom of this embow’ring thade, The conjugal and the matcrnai love. This lonc retreat for tender forrow made,

Sweet babes! who, like the little playful I now may give my burthen'd heart relief,


[lav:ns, And pour forth all my stores of grief;

Were wont to trip along these verdant Of grief surpailing ev'ry other woe,

By your delighted mother's fide, Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love

Who now your infant steps shall guide ? Can on th'ennobled mind bestow,

Ah! where is now the hand, whose tender care Exceeds the vulgar joys that move

To ev'ry virtue would have form'd your Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.


truth? Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,

And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of Ye high o'ershadowing hills,

O loss beyond repair ! Ye lawns, gay-finiling with eternal green,

O wretched father! left alone Oft have you my Lucy seen!

To wecp their dire misfortune, and thy own! But never mall you now behold her more: How shall thy weakcn'd mind, oppress’d with Nor will the now, with fond delight,

woe, And taste refin'd, your rural charms explore. And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night, Perform the duties that you doubly owe! Those beauteous eyes, where beamingus'd to thine

Now she, alas! is gone,

[fare. Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine. From folly and from vice their hclpless age to Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice Where were


Mufcs, when relentless Fate To hear her hçavenly voice;

From these fond arins your fair disciple tore; For her despising, when the deign’d to sing,

From these fond arms that vainly ftrove The fiveetest fongsters of the spring :

With hapless inetfectual love, The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ; To guard her bosom from the mortal blow? The nightingale was muie,

Could not your favouring pow'r, Aonian And ev'ry shepherci's flute


[date? Was cast in silent fcorn away,

Could not, alas! your power prolong her While all attended to her fiveeter lay.

For whom so oft, in these inspiring thades, Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song: Or under Cainden's mots-clad mountains hoar, And thou, melodious Philomel,

You open'd all vour facred ftore;
Again thy plaintive story tell;

Whate'er your ancient fages taught,
For death has stopp'd that tuncful tongue, Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
Whose music could alone your warbling notes And bąde her raptur'd breast with all your fpi-

rit glow? In vain I look around

Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain, O’er all the well-known ground,

Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,



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