Shine, Goddess, shine with unremitted ray, And gild (a second sun) with brighter beam our day.

Labor with thee forgets his pain,
And aged Poverty can smile with thee;
If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain,
And weak th' uplifted arm of tyranny.
The morning opes on high
His universal eye;

And on the world doth pour
His glories in a golden show'r. [ray,
Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hostile
Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn :
The brood obscene, that own her gloomy

sway,

Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale shiv'ring ghosts, that dread th' all-cheering light, [night. Quick as the lightning's flash glide to sepulchral But whence the gladd'ning beam That his purple stream pours

O'er the long prospect wide?

"Tis Mirth. I see her sit
In majesty of light,

With Laughter at her side.
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air;
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltless strikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affliction's pow'r,
Fear not now wild Passion's rage;
Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour,
Save the tardy hand of Age.
Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet's
pray'r :
troubled air.
No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,

I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent wave

My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood,
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood:
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide';
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks, so gaily green,
May nuni'rous herds and flocks be seen;
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail;
And shepherds, piping in the dale;

And ancient faith, that knows no guile; And industry, embrown'd with toil; And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd, The blessings they enjoy to guard.

$ 84. Songe to Ella, Lorde of the Castel of Bryslowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEY.

Oн thou, orr what remaynes of thee,

Ella, the darlynge of futurity,

Lett thys mie songe bolde as thie courage be,
As everlastynge to posteritye.
Whanne Dacya's sonnes, whose hayres of bloude-
redde hue
[ing due,
Lyche kynge-cuppes brastynge wythe the morn-
Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie,
Upponne the lethale daie,

Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore,
Than dyddst thou furiouse stande,
And bie thie valyante hande
Beesprengedd all the mees wythe gore,

Drawn bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of helle
Thousands of Dacyanns went;
Brystowannes, menne of myghte,
Ydar'd the bloudie fyghte,
And actedd deeds full quent.

Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att reste)
Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth beste,
Whetherr upponne the bloude-embrewedd
Or whare thou kennst from farre [pleyne,
The dysmall crye of warre,

Or seest somme mountayne made of corse of sleyne ;

Orr seest the hatchedd stede,
Ypraunceynge o'er the mede,

And neighe to be amenged the poynctedd

"That syttes enthron'd on hyghe, "Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine, "To-daie shall surelie die."

Then wythe a jugge of nappy

ale

His knyghtes dydd onne hymn waite; "Goe tell 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,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe.

Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

"O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge

Speke boldlic, manne," sayd brave Svr Charles,
Whatte says thie traytour kynge?"

"I greeve to telle: Before yonne sonne
"Does fromme the welkinne flye,
"He hath uponne hys honnor sworne

Thatt thou shalt surelie die."

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Of thatte I'in not affearde:

"What bootes to lyve a little space? "Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd.

"Butte telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,

"I'de sooner die to daie

"Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
"Tho' I should lyve for aie."

Thenne Canterlone hee dydde goe out,
To telle the maior straite

To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;
"I'm come," quoth hee, "unto your grace
"To move your clemencye."

Thenne quod the kynge, "Your tale speke 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 stylle was ryghte:

"Hee has a spouse and children twaine, "Alle rewyn'd are for aie;

"Yff thatt you are resolv'd to lett "Charles Bawdin die to daie."

<< Speke nott of such a traytour vile,"
The kynge ynne fury sayde;

Before the er'ning starre doth sheene,
“ Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:
Justice does loudlie for hym calle
"And hee shall have hys meede

"Atte present doe

you

neede?"

My nobile liege!" goode Canynge sayde, Leave justice to our Godde,

66

Wylle val' rous actions prize, Respect a brave and nobile nynde,

Although ynne enemies."

Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heav'n "That dydd mee beinge gyve,

"I will nott taste a bitt of breade
"Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

66

By Marie, and all Seinctes ynne heav'n, Thys sunne shall be hys laste."

Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.

With herte brimin-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Sir Charles dydd goe,

And satte hymm down uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flow.

"We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles;
"Whatt bootes ytt howe or whenne?
"Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

"Of all wee mortall menne.

"Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul "Runs overr att thyne eye;

"Is ytte for my most welcome doome "Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye ?"

Quod godlie Canynge, "I do weepe,

Myghte notte finde passage toe my harte, "And close myne eyes for aie?

"And shall I now, for feere of dethe, "Looke wanne and bee dismay'd? "Ne! fromm my herte flie childlyshe feere, "Be alle the manne display'd.

"Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, "And guarde thee and thyne sonne, "Yff'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,

66

Why thenne hys wylle be donne.

"My honeste friende, my faulte has beene "To serve Godde and mye prynce ; "And thatt I no tyme-server am, "My dethe wylle soone convynce. "Ynne London citye was I borne, "Of parents of grete note; "My fadre dydd a nobile arms

"Emblazon onne hys cote : "I make no doubte butt he ys gone

"Where soone I hope to goe; "Where wee for ever shall bee blest, "From oute the reech of woe: "He taught mee justice and the laws, "Wyth pitie to unite; "And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe

"The wronge cause fromm the ryghte: "Hee taught mee wythe a prudent hande “To feede the hungrie poore, "Ne lette mye servants drive awaie

"The hungrie fromme my doore: "And none can saye, butt all mye lyfe "I have hys wordyes kept; "And summ'd the actyonns of the daie "Eche nyghte before I slept. "I have a spouse, goe aske of her "Yff I defyl'd her bedde? "I have a kynge, and none can laie "Blacke treason onne my hedde. "Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, "Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne; "Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd "To leave thys worlde of payne?

"Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,
"I shall ne see thye dethe;
"Moste willynglie in thy just cause
"Do I resign my brethe.

"Oh fickle people ! rewyn'd londe !
"Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;

Whyche tyme can't eat awai,

"There wythe the servants 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 sonnes and loving wyfe!

"Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,
"As e'er the month of Maie;
"Nor woulde I even wyshe 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 claryonnes to sounde;
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A-prauncyng onne the grounde;
And juste before the officers,

Hys lovynge wyfe came yane,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
"Ynne quiet lett mee die :
"Praie Godde, that every Christian soule
"Maye looke onne dethe as I.

"Sweet Florence! why these brinie tears;
"Theye washe my soule awaie,
"And almost make mee wishe for lyfe,
"Wyth thee, sweete dame, to stale.
"Tys but a journie I shalle goe
"Untoe the lande of blysse;
"Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
"Receive thys holie kysse."

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saię,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!
"My herte ys welle nyghe broke:

"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe,

And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Who turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus toe her dydd saye:
"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

"Truste thou ynne Godde above,
"And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,
"And yune theyre hertes hym love:
"Teache them to runne the nobile race

"Thatt I theyre fader runne:

"Florence! should dethe thee take-adieu!
"Yee officers, lead onne."

Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

And dydd her treeses tere;

"Oh! staie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe!"
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare;
'Till tyredd oute wyth ravynge loude,
Shee fellen onne the flore;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Lookes, thatt enshoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before him went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlette robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde:

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
Appeared to the syghte,

Alle cladd ynn homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
Ynn diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
Most sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.
Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of kynge Henries friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bold as a lyor came Syr Charles,
Drawn on a clothe-layd sledde,

By two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:

Behynd hyme five-and-twentye moe
Of archers stronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route :

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backs syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt:

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlet deckt;

And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Easterne princes trickt:

And after them a multitude
Of citizens dydd thronge;

O Thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne, "Washe maye soule clean thys daye.'

Att the grete mynster windowe sat
The kynge ynn mycle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys most welcom fate.

Soon as the sledde drewe nygh enowe,
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare:

"Thou seest mee, Edwarde! traytour vile! Expos'd to infamie!

"But be assur'd, disloyall manne!
"I'm greater nowe thanne thee.
"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
"Thou wearest nowe a crowne,

"And hast appoynted mee to dye,
"By power nott thyne owne.
"Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;

"I have beene dede, till nowe, "And soon shall lyve to weare a crowne "For aie uponne my browe: "Whylst thou, perhapps for some few yeares, "Shalt rule thys fickle lande

“To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule ""Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:

"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!
"Shall falle onne thy owne hedde."
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Departed thenne the sledde.

Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face;
Hee turn'd hys head awaie,
And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd speke and saie :

"To him that soe-much-dreaded dethe "Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,

"Behold the manne! hee spake the truthe, "Hee's greater than a kynge!"

"So lett hym die!" Duke Richard sayde; "And maye echone our foes

"Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie exe, "And feede the carryon crowes."

And now the horses gentlie drewe

Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle!
The exe dydd glisterr ynne the sunne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.

Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs

Gain'd in the bloudie warre :

And to the people hee dydd saie,
"Beholde you see mee dye
"For servynge loyally mye kynge,
"Mye kynge most rightfullie.

Mie love vs dedde,

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
"Ne quiet you wylle knowe;
"Your sonnes and husbandes shall be slayne,
"And brookes withe bloude shalle flowe.

"You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,
"Whenne ynne adversitye;

"Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
"And for the true cause dye."

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne his knees,
A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Then kncelynge downe, he layd hys heede
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-inanne stroke!
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
And tears, enow to washe 't awaie,

Dydd Howe fromme each mann's eyne.
The blondie exe hys bodie fayre
Ynnto foure parties cutte;
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde
Upon a pole was putte.

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure.

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,
A dreery spectacle;

His hedde was plac'd onne the hygh crosse,
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;
Godde prosper long our kynge,
And grant hee may, wyth Bawdin's soule,
Ynne heaven Godd's mercie synge!

§ 86. The Mynstrelles Songe in Ella, a Tragycal Enterlude. CHATTERTON, &c.

O! SYNGE untoe my roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,

Lycke a reynynge (a) ryver bee.
Mic love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Black hys cryne (b) as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode (c) as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he İves
ynne the
belowe.

grave

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee, Defte his taboure, codgelle stote,

O! hee lys bie the wyllowe-tree.

(a) Running.
(e) Endeavoured.

(b) Hair.

) Freeze.

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as theie goe.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Heere, upon mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Ne one hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Wythe mie hondes I'll dent the brieres
Rounde hys hailie corse to gre;
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie boddie stille schalle bee.

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe-tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Drayne my hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daic. Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes (d)
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.