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-Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,

I thalle ne fee thye dethe; Meft willynglie in thye juft 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. Saie were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,

And godlie Henrie's reigne,
Thatt you dydd choppe youre 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 traytor's pow'r,

Hee can ne harm my mynde;

What tho', uphoifted onne a pole,

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Mye lymbes fhall rotte ynn ayre, And ne ryche monument of brasse

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

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Whyche tyme can't eat awai,
There, wythe the fervants of the Lorde,
My name shall lyve for aie.
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,
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, juste 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?
Theye washe my foule awaie,
And almoft make mee wyfhe for lyfe,
• Wyth thee, fweete dame, to staie.
Tys but a journie I fhalle goe

Untoe the lande of blyffe;

• Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Receive thys holic kyffe.'

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her faie, Tremblynge, thefe wordyes hee fpoke, Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! "My herte ys well nyghe broke:

"Ah, fweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou go, "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 thee take-adieu!
Yee officers, lead onne.'

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

"Oh! ftaic, my husbande! lorde and lyfel"
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 ftedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:
Behynde hym five-and-twentye moe
Of archers ftronge and ftoute,
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 ftrunge bataunt:

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

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And

And after them a multitude

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

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dvdd turne and faie,
'O Thou, thatt savest manne fromme fynne,
Wafhe mye foule clean thys daie.'
Att the grete mynster windowe fat
The kynge ynne mycle state,
To fee Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys moft welcom fate.

Soon as the fledde drewe nyghe enowe,

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

Thou seeft mee, Edwarde! traytour vilu!
'Expos'd to infamie;

But be affur'd, difloyall manne!
'I'm givaterr nowe thanne thec.

Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou weareft nowe a crowne;
And haft appoynted mee to dye,
By power nott thyne owne.
Thou thynkest I fhall dye to-daie;
I have beene dede tille nowe,

And foone fhall lyve to weare a crowne

For aie uponne my browe,

Whylft thou, perhapps for fome few yeares,
Shalt rule thys fickle lande,

To lett thein knowe howe wyde the rule

Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
Thye pow'r unjuft, thou traytour flave!
Shall falle onne thy owne hedde.'--
Fromm out the 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 hvs broder Gloucefter

Hee thus dydd fpeke and faic: "To hym that foe-much-dreaded dethe "Ne ghaftlie terrors brynge: "Beholde the manne! hee fpake the truthe; "Hee's greater than a kynge!"

So lett hym die!' Duke Richard fayde;
And maye echone our foes

Bende downe theyr neckes to bloudie exe,
And feede the carryon crowes.'

And now the horfes geatlie drewe

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

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

Of victorye, by val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd in the bloudie warre:

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As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,

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Ne quiet you wylle knowe;

Your fonnes and husbandes fhalle be flayne, And brookes wyth bloudé 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 preftes, uponne hys knees,
A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Befeechynge hymn unto hymfelfe
Hys partynge foule to take.

Then, kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede
Moft feelie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-inanne ftroke!
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the fcaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to washe't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
The bloudic exe hys bodie fayre
Ynnto foure parties cutte;

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

One parte dydd rotte on Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynfter-tower,
And one from off the caftle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure:

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

Hys hedde was plac'd one the hyghe crosse,
Ynne hyghe-ftreete moft nobile.

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:
Godde profper long our kynge,
And grant hee may, wyth Bawdin's foule,
Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie fynge!

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Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstle's note,
Quycke ynne daunce as thought can bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle ftote,
O hee lys bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Alle underre the wyllowe tree:
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe fynge
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree:

See! the whyte moone fheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true love's throude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge fkie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, upon mie true love's grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nec one hallie feynote to fave
Al the celnefs of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Alle under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'll dent the brieres
Rounde hys hallie corfe to gre;
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mic boddie ftylle fchalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feafte by daie.
Mic love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes 1,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damfelle spake, and dyed:

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$102. Grongar Hill. DYER. SILENT Nymph with curious eye, Who the purple ev'ning lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond 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 fky, Grongar Hill invite my fong,

Draw the landfcape bright and ftrong; Grongar in whofe moily cells,

Sweetly mufing Quiet dwells;

3 Freeze. 7 Foes, enemies. 13 Flaming. 18 Guides.

14 Meteors 19 Armed.

4 Undifinayed. 8 Fly.

9 Head. 15 Beats, famps. 20 Arofe. Ff3

5 Armed, pointed. 10.Stretched. 16 Clofely.

21, Helmet.

Grongar 1

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 chicquer'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 fkies,
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 the
gay,
fcene
open
Does the face of Nature fhew
In all the hues of heaven's bow,
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the fight.
Old caftles on the cliffs arife,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rufhing from the woods, the fpires
Seem 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 lender fir, that taper grows,

The sturdy oak, with broad-fpread 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 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 sway,

A fun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And fee 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 the 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, doine 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 clofe and fmall the hedges lie!
What ftreaks of meadows crofs the eye!
A ftep, methinks, may pass 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 ftill 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 quict 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 sky,
Now, c'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts' be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill; Open wide the lofty door;' Seck her on the marble floor: In vain ye fearch, the is not there; In vain ye fearch the domes of Care! Grafs and flowers Quiet treads, On the meads and mountain heads, Along with Pleafure clofe ally'd, Ever by each other's fide; And often, by the murm'ring rill, Hears the thrush, while all is still, Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

§ 103.

A Monody on the Death of his Lady.
By GEORGE Lord LYTTLETON.

• Ipfe cava folans agrum teftitudine amorem,
• Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore ferum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.'

AT length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye,

From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care,
[fhare,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring fhade,
This lone retreat for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burthen'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my ftores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing ev'ry other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th'ennobled mind beftow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,
Ye lawns, gay-finiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!
But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now, with fond delight,
And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endlefs night,
Thofe beauteous eyes, where beaming us❜d to shine
Reafon's pure light and Virtue's fpark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of thefe woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;
For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The fweeteft fongfters of the fpring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,
And ev'ry fhepherd's flute
Was caft in filent fcorn away,
While all attended to her fweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong:
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell;

For death has ftopp'd that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes

excel.

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,

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Can aught of her efpy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie
O fhades of Hagley, where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.

You the preferr'd to all the gay reforts
Where female vanity might wish to fhine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modeft beauties fhunn'd the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales
From an admiring world the chole to fly.
With Nature there retir'd. and Nature's God,
The filent paths of wifdom trou,

And banith'd ev'ry paffion from her breaft
But thofe, the gentleft and the best,
Whofe holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who, like the little playful
fawns,
[lawns,
Were wont to trip along thefe verdant
By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps fhall guide? Ah! where is now the hand, whofe tender care To ev'ry virtue would have form'd your youth, [truth? And ftrew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of Olofs beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! How fhall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with

woe,

And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe!

Now fhe, alas! is gone,

[fave, From folly and from vice their helpless age to

Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From thefe fond arms your fair difciple tore;

maids,

From thefe fond arms that vainly ftrove
With haplefs ineffectual love,
To guard her bofom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favouring pow'r, Aönian
[date?
Could not, alas! your power prolong her
For whom so oft, in thefe infpiring fhades,
Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred ftore;
Whate'er your ancient fages taught,
Your ancient bards fublimely thought,
And bade her raptur'd breaft with all your fpi-
rit glow?

Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,

Ff4

Not

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