O, Nanny, canst thou love so true, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? Dr. Thomas Percy.-Born 1728, Died 1811. 938. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. It was a friar of orders gray Walk'd forth to tell his beads, And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 'Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar! I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see." "And how should I know your true love But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view, His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, "O lady, he is dead and gone! And 'plaining of her pride. Here bore him barefaced on his bier "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth- "O weep not, lady, weep not so, "O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love. And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wish'd to live, For thee I wish to die." "Weep no more, lady, weep no more; Thy sorrow is in vain : For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower Our joys as winged dreams do fly; "O say not so, thou holy friar! And will he never come again- His cheek was redder than the rose- "Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, "Now say not so, thou holy friar, My love he had the truest heart- And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth But first upon my true love's grave That wraps his breathless clay.' "Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while Beneath this cloister wall; The cold wind through the hawthorn blows, "O stay me not, thou holy friar, "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears; For see, beneath this gown of gray, Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, And here, amid these lonely walls, But haply, for my year of grace Might I still hope to win thy love, "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part." Dr. Thomas Percy.-Born 1728, Died 1811. 939.-THE CAVE. The wind is up, the field is bare, Some hermit lead me to his cell, Where Contemplation, lonely fair, With bless'd content has chose to dwell. Behold! it opens to my sight, Dark in the rock, beside the flood; Dry fern around obstructs the light; The winds above it move the wood. Reflected in the lake, I see The downward mountains and the skies, The flying bird, the waving tree, The goats that on the hill arise. The gray-cloak'd herd drives on the cow, The slow-paced fowler walks the heath; A freckled pointer scours the brow; A musing shepherd stands beneath. Curved o'er the ruin of an oak, The woodman lifts his axe on high; Some rural maid, with apron full, I see the smoky columns roll, And, through the chinky hut, the beam. Beside a stone o'ergrown with mogs, A lake at distance spreads to sight, One tree bends o'er the naked walls; As blows the blast along the sky. The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. The wind is rustling in the oak; They seem to hear the tread of feet; They start, they rise, look round the rock; Again they smile, again they meet. But see! the grey mist from the lake To Damon's homely hut I fly; I see it smoking on the plain; When storms are past and fair the sky, James Macpherson.-Born 1738, Died 1796. 940.-MORNING. Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been dight, From the red east he flitted with his train ; The Houris draw away the gate of Night, Like gouts of blood which do black armour stain, Shining upon the bourn which standeth by; The soldier stood upon the hillis side, Like young enleaved trees which in a forest bide. Chatterton.-Born 1752, Died 1770. 941.-SPRING. The budding floweret blushes at the light, The meads be sprinkled with the yellow hue, In daisied mantles is the mountain dight, The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the dew; The trees enleafed, into heaven straight, When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din is brought. The evening comes, and brings the dews along, The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne, Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song, Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine; I lay me on the grass, yet to my will Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still. Chatterton.-Born 1752, Died 1770. 942.-THE PROPHECY. This truth of old was sorrow's friend- When vile Corruption's brazen face When civil power shall snore at ease; When time shall bring your wish about, Then Canterlone he did go out, To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles's fate. Then Mr. Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee; "I'm come," quoth he, "unto your grace, "Then," quoth the king, "your tale speak out, "My noble liege! all my request Is for a noble knight, Who, though mayhap he has done wrong, He has a spouse and children twain; If that you are resolved to let 64 Charles Bawdin die to-day." Speak not of such a traitor vile," "Before the evening star doth shine, Justice does loudly for him call, "My noble liege!" good Canynge said, And lay the iron rule aside; Was God to search our hearts and reins, Let mercy rule thine infant reign, But if with blood and slaughter thou "My noble liege! the truly brave "Canynge, away! By God in heaven Saith godly Canynge, "I do weep, "Then dry the tears that out thine eye Death I despise, and all the power When through the tyrant's welcome means The God I serve will soon provide Before I saw the lightsome sun, How oft in battle have I stood, When thousands died around; How did I know that every dart And shall I now, for fear of death, Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend, My honest friend, my fault has been In London city was I born, Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat: I make no doubt but he is gone He taught me justice and the laws And eke he taught me how to know He taught me with a prudent hand And none can say but all my life And summ'd the actions of the day I have a spouse, go ask of her I have a king, and none can lay In Lent, and on the holy eve, Why should I then appear dismay'd No, hapless Henry! I rejoice Oh, fickle people! ruin'd land! Thou wilt ken peace no moe; While Richard's sons exalt themselves, Thy brooks with blood will flow. Say, were ye tired of godly peace, And godly Henry's reign, That you did chop your easy days For those of blood and pain? What though I on a sledge be drawn, I do defy the traitor's power, Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away, Then welcome death! for life eterne Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Nor would I even wish to live, With my dear wife to stay." Saith Canynge, ""Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to fly." And now the bell began to toll, And clarions to sound; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet And just before the officers "Sweet Florence! now I pray forbear, In quiet let me die ; Pray God that every Christian soul Sweet Florence! why these briny tears? And almost make me wish for life, 'Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss; Then Florence, faltering in her say, Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, It eke shall end my life." And now the officers came in "I go to life, and not to death, Teach them to run the noble race Florence! should death thee take-adieu! Then Florence raved as any mad, And did her tresses tear; "Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life!" Sir Charles then dropp'd a tear. Till tired out with raving loud, Upon a sledge he mounted then, With looks full brave and sweet; Looks that enshone no more concern Than any in the street. |