Now Mirth hath heard the fuppliant Poet's pray'r: No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the troubled air.

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

Pure ftream in whofe tranfparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents ftain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That fweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polifh'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 ruthless pike, intent on war;
The filver eel and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By how'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 feen;
And laffes, chanting o'er the pail;
And thepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, 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 Bryflowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of Row LEY. OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,

Ella, the darlynge of futurity,

Lett thys mic fonge bolde as thic courage be,
As everlaftynge to pofteritye.

redde hue

$86. Briftowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr Charles Badin.

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 ftreakes
Of lyghte eclypfe the greie;

And herde the raven's crokynge 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 teli 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 castle-gate,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

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

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

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

fonne

yonne "I greeve to telle, before "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 are,
"Tho' I should lyve for aie."
Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out,

To telle the maior ftraite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Then

Thenne Maifterr Canynge faughte the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee; "I'm come," quod hee, " unto your grace

To move your clemencye."

Thenne quod the kynge, "Your tale speke out, "You have been much oure friende; "Whatever youre request may bee, "We wylle to ytte attende."

"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 theene,
"Bawdin fhall loofe hys hedde:
"Justice does loudlie for hym calle,

"And hee fhall have hys meede: Speke, Maifter Canynge! whatte thynge elfe "Att prefent doe 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 best were fynners grete;

Chrift's vycarr only knowes ne fynne, "Ynne alle thys mortall ftate.

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

"Alle fov'reigns 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, awaie! thys traitour vile

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

"My mobile liege! the truly brave "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 taste a bitt of breade

"Whilft thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.
"By Marie, and all Seinetes 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 ftoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.

"We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes yite 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 eye;

"Is ytte for my moft welcome doome "Thatt thou doft child-lyke crye?" Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe, "Thatt thou foe foone muft dye. "And leave thy fönnes and helpless wyfe; "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 provyde
"For bothe mye fonnes and wyfe.
"Before I fawe the lyghtfome funne,
"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 smokynge ftreems of crimson bloode
"Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde!

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

"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 childyfhe feere,
"Be alle the manne difplay'd.

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

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,

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 ys gone
"Where foone I hope to goe;
"Where wee for ever fhall bee bleft,
"From oute the reech of woe :

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

"And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowę "The wronge caufe fromm 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:

"And

"And none can faye, butt all mye lyfe
"I have hys wordyes kept;
"And fumin'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 treafon onne. my hedde.
"Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
"Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
"Whie should I thenne appeare difmay'd
"To leave thys worlde of payne?
"Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,
"I fhalle ne fee thye dethe;
"Mofte willynglie in thye just cause
"Doe 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;
"Whatte tho', uphoifted onne a pole,

46

Mye lymbes fhall rotte ynne ayre, "And ne ryche monument of braffe "Charles Bawdin's name fhall bear; "Yet ynne the holie booke above, "Whyche tyme can't eate awai, There wythe the fervants of the Lorde "Mye name fhall lyve for aie. "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,

"As e'er the month of Maie; "Nor woulde I even wythe 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 heaven to flie." And nowe the bell beganne to tolle, And clary onnes to founde;

Syr Charles hee herde the horfes feete A prauncy ing 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 forbere, "Ynne quiet lett mee die ; "Praie Godde, that ev'ry Christian foule "Maye looke onne dethe as I. 5

"Sweet Florence! why these brinic teeres? "Theye washe my foule awaie, "And almost make mee wyfhe for lyfe, "Wyth thee, sweete damne, 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 kysse,"

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her faie, Tremblynge thefe wordyes fpoke, "Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! "My herte ys welle nyghe broke: "Ah, fweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goc, "Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe! "The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, "Ytt eke 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! fhould dethe thee take-adieu !
"Yee officers, lead onne."

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

"Oh! ftaie, 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 dore. Uponne a fledde hee mounted thenne,

Wythe lookes fulle brave and fwete ;
Lookes, thatt enfhoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the ftrete.

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;
Behynde theyre 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 stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:

Behynde

Behynde hym five-and-twentye moe

Of archers ftronge and stoute
Wyth bended bowe 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 fearlett deckt;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Easterne princes trickt:

And after them a multitude

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

And whenne hee came to the hyghe croffe,
Syr Charles dydd turne and faie,
"O Thou, thatt faveft manne fromme fynne,
"Washe mye foule clean thys daie.”
Att the grete mynfter windowe fat
The kynge ynne mycle state,
To fee Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys moft welcom fate.

Soon as the fleede drewe nyghe enowe,

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, And thus hys wordes declare: "Thou feeft mee, Edwarde! traytour vile! Expos'd to infamie;

"But be affur'd, disloyall manne!

"I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
"Thou weareft nowe a crowne;
"And haft appoynted mee to dye,
"By power nott thyne owne.
"Thou thynkeft I fhall dye to-daie;
"I have becne dede 'till nowc,
"And foone fhall lyve to weare a crowne
"For aie uponne my browė:

"Whylft thou, perhapps for fome few yeares,
"Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
"To lett them 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 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 speke and faie: "To him 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 theyre neckes to bloudie exc,
"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 pretious bloude to spylle.
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 hufbandes fhall be flayne,
"And brookes wythe bloude fhalle flowe.
"You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,
"Whenne ynne adverfitye;

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

Thenne hee, wyth preeftes, 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 feemlie 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 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,
Uponne a pole was putte.

One parte dydd rotte onne 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 onne the hyghe crosse,
Ynne hyghe-ftrcete most 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 Ella, a Tragycal Enterlude. CHATTERTON, &C. Synge untoe my roundelaie,

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

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Black hys cryne 2 as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode 3 as the fommer fnowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghtc,
Cale he Íves Synne the grave belowe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quvcke ynne daunce as thought cann bee,
Defic hys taboure, codgelle ftote,

O hee lys bie the wyllowe tree:

Mie love

ys

dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe bedde,

Al under 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 sheenes onne hic;
Whyterre ys mic true loves fhroude;
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,
Nee one hallie feynete to fave
Al the celnefs of a myade.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to bys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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

ys

dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe trec. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Drayne mic hartys blodde awaic; Lyfe & all yttes goode I fcorne, Daunce bie netc, or feafte by daic. Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes 4,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

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

To everie knyghte her warre-fonge funge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were fpredde; A goric anlace by her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe;

She hearde the voice of deathe;
Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue,
In vayne affayled 5 her bofome to acale 6;
She hearde onflemed 7 the fhriekynge voice of woe,
And fadneffe ynne the owlette thake the dale.
She fhooke the burled & fpeere,

On hie the jette 9 her sheelde,
Her foemen 10 all appere,

And flizze along the feelde.

Power, wythe his heafod 12 ftraught 13 ynto

the fkyes,

DYER.

$89. Grongar Hill. SILENT Nymph! with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy 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 landscape bright and ftrong; Grongar in whofe moffy cells, Sweetly mufing Quiet dwells; Grongar! in whofe filent fhade, For the modeft Mufes made,

16 Flaming.

22 Armed.