JOURN, Iaplefs Caledonia, mourn M Thy banifh'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy fons, for valour long renown'd, Lie flaughter'd on their native ground: Thy hofpitable roofs no more Invite the ftranger to the door; In fmcky ruins fank they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner fees, afar, His all become the prey of war: Bethinks him of his babes and wife; Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life. Thy fwains are famith'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime, Thro' the wide-fpreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke: What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe, and merry lay, No more fhail cheer the happy day: No focial scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No trains but thofe of forrow flow, And nought be heard but founds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the flain Glide nightly o'er the filent plain. Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, Accurs'd to ages yet unborn! The fons against their fathers ftood; The parent shed his children's blood. Yet when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's foul was not appeas'd: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murd'ring fteel! The pious mother doom'd to death, Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath; The bleak wind whiftles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend; And on the world doth pour Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn: The brood obfcene, that own her gloomy fway, Troop in her rear,and fly th'approach of morn. Pale fhiv'ring ghofts, that dread th' all-chearing [night. light, Quick as the lightning's flath glide to fepulchral But whence the gladd'ning beam That pours his purple (tream With Laughter at her fide. NowMirth hath heard the fuppliant Poet'spray`r: No cloud that rides the blat hall vex the troubled air. $89. Ode to Leven Water. SMOLLET. ON N Leven's banks, while free to rove, Pure ftream! in whofe transparent wave Still on thy banks, fo gaily green, $90. Songe to Ella, Lerde of the Caftel of Bryftowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLEY. OH H thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Alla, the darlynge of futurity, Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be, As everlaftynge to pofteritye. redde hue And neighetobeamenged the poyntedd fpeeres, $91. Briftowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin. CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEY. The commynge of the morne; "Thou'rt ryght," quod hee," for, by the Godde, Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale His Knyghtes dydd orne hymm waite; Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whofe hayres of bloude. Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore; Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att refte) O goode Syr Charles!" fayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." Speke boldlie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles, "Whatte fays thie traytour kynge?" "I greeve to telle: Before yonne fonne "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. "Butte telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, "I'de fooner die to-daie "Thanne lyve hys flave, as manie are, Thenne Thenne Maisterr Canynge faughte the kynge, "We all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; Thenne quod the kynge, "Your tale fpeke out," "You have been much oure friende; "Whatever youre requeste may bee, "We wylle to ytte attende.' "My nobile liege! all my request "Ys for a nobile knyghte, "Who, tho' may hap he has done wronge, "He thoghte ytte ftylle was ryghte: "Hee has a spouse 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; "My nobile liege!" goode Canynge fayde, "Was Godde to ferche our hertes and reines, "Alle fov reigns thall endure: "Has fcorn'd my pow'r and mee; "My noble liege! the truly brave "Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heav'n "I wyll nott tafte a bitt of breade "Whilit thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. "By Marie, and all Seintes ynne heav'n, Thys funne fhall be hys lafte." Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, And from the prefence paste. With herte brimm-fulle of gnawynge grief, Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul "Runs overr att thyne eye; "Is ytte for my moft welcome doome "Thatt thou doft child-lyke crye?” Quod godlie Canynge, "I do weepe, "Thatt thou foe foone muft dye, "And leave thy tonnes and helpless wyfe; "'Tis thys that 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, traytour kynge. "Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means "The Godde I ferve wylle foon provyde Thys was appointed mee; Shall mortal manne repine or grudge "Howe oft ynne battaile have I ftcode, "How dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte, Myghte notte finde paffage toe my harte, "And fhall I now, for feere of dethe, "Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, "My honefte friende, my faulte has beene My dethe wylle foone convynce. "I make ne doubte butt he ys gone "He taught mee juftice and the laws "And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe 113 "And "And none can faye, butt all mye lyfe "Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe ! "And godlie Henrie's reigne, "Thatt you dydd choppe your eafie daies "For those of bloude and peyne? "Whatte tho' I onne a fledde bee drawne, "And mangled by a hynde, "I do defye the traytour's pow'r, "He can ne harm my mynde; "Wyatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole, "Mye lymbes fhall rotte ynne ayre, "And ne ryche monument of braise "Charles Bawdin's name fhall bear; "Yet ynne the holie booke above, "Whyche tyme can't eat awai, "There wythe the fervants of the Lorde "Mye name shall 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 loving wyfe! "Now dethe as welcome to mee comes, "As e'er the month of Maie; "Nor woulde I even wyfhe to lyve, "Wyth my dere wyfe to ftaie." Quod Canynge, "Tys a goodlie thynge "And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete "Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, "Praie Godde, that every Chriftian foule "Maye kooke onne dethe as I. "Sweet Florence! why these brinie tears; 66 Wyth thee, fweete dame, to ftaie, "Tys but a journie I fhalle goe Úntoe the lande of blyffe; "Nowe, as a proofe of hufbande's love, "Receive thys holie kyffe." 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 goe Wythoute thye lovyinge 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, Who turnedd toe hys 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 anie 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. Wythe lookes fulle brave and fwete; The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next Alle cladd ynn homelie ruffett weedes, Ynn diffraunt partes a godlie pfaume Behynde theyre backes fyx mynftrelles came, Who tun'd the ftrunge bataunt. Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came; From rescue of kynge Henries friends Bold as a lyon came Syr Charles, Drawn onne a clothe-layde fledde, By two blacke ftedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: Behynde Belynde hym five-and-twentye moe Seine Jamefes Freers marched next, Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, And after them a multitude Of citizens dydd thronge; The wyndowes were all full of heddes, And whenne hee came to the hyghe croffe, To fee Charles Bawdin goe alonge Soon as the fledde drewe nygh enowe, Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd ftande uppe, And thus hys wordes declare: "Thou feeft mee, Edwarde! traytour vile! Expos'd to infamie; "But be affur'd, disloyall manne! Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, Thou thynkest I fhall dye to-daie; "And foone fhall lyve to weare a crowne yeares, Whylft thou, perhapps for fome few "Shalt rule thys fickle lande To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule "Twixt kynge and tyrant hande: Thye pow'r unjuft, thou traytour slave! "Shall falle onne thy owne bedde." Fromm out of hearyng of the kinge Departed thenne the fledde. Kynge Edwarde's foule ruth'd to hys face; Hee thus dydd fpeke and faie: "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 exe, "And feede the carryon crowes." 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, "Your fonnes and husbandes shall be flayne, "And brookes withe bloude fhalle flowe. "You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, "Whenne ynne adverfitye; "Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, Thenne hee, wyth preeftes, uponne his knees, Then kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once Ynnto foure parties cutte; And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, And one from off the caftle-gate The crowen dydd devoure: The other onne Seynete Powle's goode gate, His hedde was plac'd onne the hygh croffe, § 92. The Mynfirelles Songe in Ella, a Tra gycal Enterlude. CHATTERTON, &C. SYNGE untoe my roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge (a) ryver bee. (a) Running. |