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“ Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, Thou wearest nowe a crowne ;
And rounde the scaffolde twyne; And hast appoynted mee to die,
And teares, enow to washe't awaie, By power nott thyne owne.
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. “ Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daje;
The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre I have beene dede till nowe,
Ynnto foure partes cutte; And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, For aie uponne my browe:
Uponne a pole was putte. “ Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares, One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
One onne the mynster-tower, To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
And one from off the castle-gate 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
The crowen dydd devoure: Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!
The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, Shall falle onne thye owne hedde"
A dreery spectacle; Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Departed thenne the sledde.
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face,
Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate: Hee turn'd his bedde awaie,
Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And to hys broder Gloucester
And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Hee thus dydd speke and saie:
Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie synge! “ To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe
Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,
0! synge untoe mie roundelaie, “ Soe lett hym die!” Duke Richarde sayde;
0! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, “ And maye ech one oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee; And feede the carryon crowes."
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde, And nowe the horses gentlie drewe
Al under the wyllowe tree. Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, His pretious bloude to spylle.
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe; As uppe a gilded carre
Mie love ys dedde, Of victorye, bye val’rous chiefs
Gon to hys death-bedde, Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre:
Al under the wyllowe tree. And to the people hee dyd saie :
Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, « Beholde you see mee dye,
Quycke yon daunce as thought canne bee,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde, “ As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
Goune to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe; “ You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as beie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Hys partynge soule to take.
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
The able heddes-manne stroke:
Gonne to hys death-bedde,
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Mie love ys dedde,
Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.
SENT TO A FRIEND, ON HIS LEAVING A FAVOURITE
VILLAGE IN HAMPSHIRE.
As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms!
So by some sage inchanter's spell,
Ah mourn, thou lov'd retreat! no more
Who now shall indolently stray
For lo! the bard who rapture found
Behold, a dread repose resumes,
Betray'd, at distance, beauties new: While gleaming o'er the crisped bowers Rich spires arose, and sparkling towers. If bound on service new to go, The master of the magic show, His transitory charm withdrew, Away th’illusive landscape flew: Dun clouds obscur'd the groves of gold, Blue lightning smote the blooming mould; In visionary glory rear'd, The gorgeous castle disappear’d: And a bare heath's unfruitful plain Usurp'd the wizard's proud domain.
Το Α An
WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON-HOUSE.
TO MR. GRAY.
Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train : Studious to trace thy wond'rous origine,
From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art
Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs, From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays;
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start, That still they can recal those happier days.
How to life's humbler scene can I depart?
Vain the complaint: for fancy can impart
(To fate superior, and to fortune's doom) Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green,
Whate'er adorns the stately-storied hall: Or like the forest's silver-quiver'd queen,
She, mid the dungeon's solitary gloom, On airy uplands met the piercing gale;
Can dress the graces in their Attic pall; And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale,
Bid the green landskip's vernal beauty bloom; Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen.
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall. But since, gay-thron’d in fiery chariot sheen,
Not that her blooms are mark'd with beauty's hue, And now, all glad the temperate air to breathe,
My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings; While cooling drops distil from arches dim,
Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings! Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath,
While slowly-pacing through the churchyard dew, She sits amid the choir of naiads trim.'
At curfew-time, beneath the dark-green yew,
Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings; III.
Or, borne sublime on inspiration's wings,
Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clue
Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay?
No, bard divine! For many a care beguil'd By fancy's genuine feelings unbeguilid,
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, Of painful pedantry the poring child;
For many a raptur'd thought, and vision wild, Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, To thee this strain of gratitude I pay. Now sunk by time, and Henry's fiercer rage. Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smil'd
VII. On his lone hours ? Ingenuous views engage While summer-suns o'er the gay prospect play'd, His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styl’d,
Through Surry's verdant scenes, where Epsom Intent. While cloisterod piety displays
spreads Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads, New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
And Hascombe's hill in towering groves array'd Whence culls the pensive bard his pictur'd stores.
Rear’d its romantic steep, with mind serene Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways
I journey'd blithe. Full pensive I return'd; Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers.
For now my breast with hopeless passion burn’d.
Wet with hoar mists appear’d the gaudy scene, IV.
Which late in careless indolence I past;
And Autumn all around those hues had cast, Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle!
Where past delight my recent grief might trace. Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore
Sad change, that nature a congenial gloom To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Should wear, when most, my cheerless inood to chase, Huge frame of giant-lands, the mighty pile,
I wish'd her green attire and wonted bloom! T' entomb his Britains slain by Hengist's guile:
VIII. Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
ON KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE AT WINCHESTER. Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, Where Venta's Norman castle still appears, To victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,
Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss, Rear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd round, And scatter'd Ainty fragments clad in moss, Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line;
On yonder steep in naked state appears ; Or here those kings in solemn state were crown'd: High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years,
WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE.
TO THE RIVER LODON.
Gare de ind a thire
Yet she can carve and make birch wine.
To share the monthly club's carousing:
Old Arthur's board: on the capacious round
“ These fellowships are pretty things, Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd,
We live indeed like petty kings: In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.
But who can bear to waste his whole Though join'd by magic skill with many a rhyme,
Amid the dullness of a college, The Druid frame unhonour'd falls a prey
Debarr’d the common joys of life, To the slow vengeance of the wizard time,
And that prime bliss-a loving wife! And fade the British characters away ;
O! what's a table richly spread Yet Spenser's page, that chaunts in verse sublime
Without a woman at its head! Those chiefs, shall live unconscious of decay.
Would some snug benefice but fall,
Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all!
To officers I'd bid adieu,
Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
Come, tithes, and house, and fruitful fields!"
Long time he watches, and by stealth,
A living drops--two hundred clear ! Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. With breast elate beyond expression, Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure He hurries down to take possession, No more return, to cheer my evening road!
With rapture views the sweet retreatYet still one joy remains, that not obscure,
“ What a convenient house! how neat! Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd,
For fuel here's suflicient wood:
The garden-that must be new plano'da
O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
Yon wall, that feels the southern ray, When now mature in classic knowledge,
Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay: The joyful youth is sent to college,
While thick beneath its aspect warm His father comes, a vicar plain,
O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm, At Oxford bred-in Anna's reign,
From which, ere long, of golden gleam And thus, in form of humble suitor,
Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream: Bowing accosts a reverend tutor.
This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy, “ Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,
We'll alter to a modern privy:
Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,
When nine full tedious winters past,
Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
Continuing this fantastic farce on,
Thus fixt, content be taps his barrel,