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 Still on thy banks, fo gaily green, §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, redde hue Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whofe hayres of bloude- Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets fhore; Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att refte) Orr feeft fomme mountayne made of corfe of fleyne; $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; And herde the raven's crokynge throte "Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godde 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, Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore, "O goode Syr Charles!" fayd Canterlone, 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, To telle the maior ftraite 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 "Who, tho' may hap he has donne wronge, The kynge ynne fury fayde; "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, "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. With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,.. "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 "Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, "How dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte, "That cutte the airie waie, "Myghte nott finde paffage toe my harte, "And fhall I now, for feere of dethe, "Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, 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. "I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone "Hee taught mee juftice and the laws "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 "Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe ! 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 ! Thenne Florence rav'd as anic madde, "Oh! ftaie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe!", 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 ; Before hym went the council-menne, The Freers of Seinete Auguftyne next Alle cladd ynne homelie ruffett weedes, Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie pfaume Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came; 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 Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, And after them a multitude Of citizens dydd thronge; And whenne hee came to the hyghe croffe, 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, "Whylft thou, perhapps for fome few yeares, Kynge Edwarde's foule rufh'd to hys face; 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 now the horfes gentlie drewe Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle! Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs "As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, "Lyke mee, untoe the true caufe stycke, Thenne hee, wyth preeftes, uponne hys knees, Then kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede Ynnto foure parties cutte; One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, The crowen dydd devoure : The other onne Seynete Powle's goode gate, Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, § 87. The Mynftreiles Songe in Ella, a Tragycal Enterlude. CHATTERTON, &C. Synge untoe my roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, 1 Running. Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 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, Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe fynge, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hic; Wythe mie hondes I'll dent the brieres 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, I die; I comme; mie true love waytes, 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; On hie the jette 9 her sheelde, 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. 20 Mantled, covered. 21 Guides. |