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u Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete; Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern
Wyth my dere wyse to staie.”

Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Quod Canynge,“ 'Tys a goodlie thynge

Before hym went the council

menne, To bee prepar'd to die;

Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.”

Muche glorious to beholde:
And nowe the belle began to tolle,

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
And claryonnes to sound;

Appeared to the syghte,
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
And just before the officers

Yone diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,

Moste sweetlie theye dyd chaunt;
Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe,

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt. “ Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Ynn quiet lett mee die;

Echone the bowe dydd bende,
Praie Godde that ev'ry Christian soule

From rescue of Kynge Henries friends
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

Syr Charles forr to defend. “ Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers ?

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
Theye washe my soule awaie,

Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: “ 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe

Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe
Untoe the lande of blysse;

Of archers stronge and stoute,
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,

Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Receive thys holie kysse.”

Marched ynne goodlie route:
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt; " Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt: 6 Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,

And theyre attendyng mennc cchone,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.”

Lyke easterne princes trick't:
And nowe the officers came ynne

And after them a multitude
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,

Of citizenns dydd thronge;
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyse,

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, And thus to her dydd saie:

As hee dydd passe alonge. “ I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Truste thou ynne Godde above,

Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

“ O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

soule clean thys daie !" 6 Teache them to runne the nobile race

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat
Thatt I theyre fader runne;

The kynge ynne myckle state,
Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu !

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
Yee officers leade onne.”

To hys most welcom fate.
Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, And dydd her tresses tere;

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, «« Oh staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!"

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

And thus hys wordes declare: "Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,

“ Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Shee fellen onne the flore;

Expos’d to infamie;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne!
And march'd fromm oute the dore.

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

Washe mye

66

“ 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-daie;

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 hedde 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,

MYNSTRELLES SONGE. Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"

O! 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

Lycke a rennynge ryver bee;
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,

Mie love ys dedde,
And feede the carryon crowes."

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 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 ynn daunce as thought canne bee, For servynge loyally mye kynge,

Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,
Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: “ As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,

Mie love ys dedde,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe:

Goune to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree. Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,

And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, “ You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,

In the briered delle belowe;
Whenne ynne adversitye;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,

To the nyghte-mares as beie goe;
And for the true cause dye.”

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
A pray'r to Godde dyd make,

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;

Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Most seemlie onne the blocke;

Mie love ys dedde,
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once

Gon to lys death-bedde,
The able heddes-manne stroke:

Al under the wyllow tree.

the

Heere uponne mie true love's grave,

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,

Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Nee on hallie seyncte to save

Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Al the celness of a mayde.

Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllow tree.

Al under the wyllowe tree. Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Rounde his hallie corse to gre,

Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.

Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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WARTON-A. D. 1728-90.

ODE.

SENT TO A FRIEND, ON HIS LEAVING A FAVOURITE VILLAGE IN HAMPSHIRE.

Ah mourn, thou lov'd retreat! no more
Shall classic steps thy scenes explore!
When morn's pale rays but faintly peep
O'er yonder oak-crown'd airy steep,
Who now shall climb its brows to view
The length of landscape, ever new,
Where summer flings, in careless pride,
Her varied vesture far and wide!
Who mark, beneath, each village-charm,
Or grange, or elm-encircled farm:
The flinty dove-cote's crowded roof,
Watch'd by the kite that sails aloof:
The tufted pines, whose umbrage tall
Darkens the long-deserted hall:
The veteran beech, that on the plain
Collects at eve the playful train:
The cot that smokes with early fire,
The low-roof'd fane's embosom'd spire!

Who now shall indolently stray
Through the deep forest's tangled way;
Pleas'd at his custom'd task to find
The well known hoary-tressed hind,
That toils with feeble hands to glean
Of wither'd boughs his pittance mean!
Who mid thy nooks of hazel sit,
Lost in some melancholy fit,
And listening to the raven's croak,
The distant flail, the falling oak!
Who through the sunshine and the shower,
Descry the rainbow-painted tower?
Who, wandering at return of May,
Catch the first cuckoo's vernal lay?
Who, musing waste the summer hour,
Where high o'er-arching trees embow'r
The grassy lane, so rarely pac'd,
With azure flow'rets idly grac'd!
Unnotic'd now, at twilight's dawn
Returning reapers cross the lawn;
Nor fond attention loves to note
The wether's bell from folds remote:
While, own'd by no poetic eye,
Thy pensive evenings shade the sky!
For lo! the bard who rapture found
In every rural sight or sound;
Whose genius warm, and judgment chaste,
No charm of genuine nature past;
Who felt the Muse's purest fires;
Far from thy favour'd haunt retires :
Who peopled all thy vocal bowers
With shadowy shapes, and airy powers.
Behold, a dread repose resumes,

As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms!
From the deep dell, where shaggy roots
Fringe the rough brink with wreathed shoots,
Th' unwilling genius flies forlorn,
His primrose chaplet rudely torn.
With hollow shriek the nymphs forsake
The pathless copse, and hedge-row brake.
Where the delv'd mountain's headlong side
Its chalky entrails opens wide,

On the green summit, ambush'd high,
No longer echo loves to lie.

No pearl-crown'd maids, with wily look,
Rise beckoning from the reedy brook.
Around the glowworm's glimmering bank,
No fairies run in fiery rank;
Nor brush, half-seen, in airy tread,
The violet's unprinted head:
But fancy, from the thickets brown,
The glades that wear a conscious frown,
The forest-oaks, that pale and lone
Nod to the blast with hoarser tone,
Rough glens, and sullen waterfalls,
Her bright ideal offspring calls.

So by some sage inchanter's spell, (As old Arabian fablers tell) Amid the solitary wild, Luxuriant gardens gaily smil'd: From sapphire rocks the fountains stream'd, With golden fruit the branches beam'd; Fair forms, in every wonderous wood, Or lightly tripp'd, or solemn stood; And oft, retreating from the view, 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.

SONNETS.
I.

WRITTEN AT WINSLADE, IN HAMPSHIRE. Winslade, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grain Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn, Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn Gan the gray mist with orient purple stain,

WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON-HOUSE.

TO MR. GRAY.

Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train : Studious to trace thy wond'rous origine,
Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn, We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.
Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn,

V.
Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain:
Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn,
Nor views invite, since he far distant strays,

From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and morn,

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?

My breast all glowing from those gorgeous tow'rs,
II.

In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours !
ON BATAING.

Vain the complaint: for fancy can impart
When late the trees were stript by winter pale,

(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-throu'd in fiery chariot sheen,

VI. Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale; She to the cave retires, high-arch'd beneath The fount that laves proud Isis' towery brim : 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 WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S

Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd:

Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay? Deem not, devoid of elegance, the

sage,

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 cloister'd 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

Should wear, To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,

when most, my cheerless mood to chase, Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile,

I wish'd her green attire and wonted bloom! Tentomb his Britains slain by Hengist's guile:

VII.
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore:

ON KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE AT WINCHESTER.
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 finty 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,

MONASTICON.

WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE.

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