Herself closed up my dying eyes;
My Phyllis fair, whom I loved most.
Thus dreadful death did me arrest,

To bring my corpse unto the grave,
And like a palmer died I,

Whereby I sought my soul to save.
My body that endured this toil,

Though now it be consumed to mould,
My statue, fair engraven in stone,

In Warwick still you may behold.

This ballad contains a short summary of the exploits of this famous champion, as recorded in the old story-books, and is commonly entitled, "A pleasant song of the valiant deeds of chivalry atchieved by that noble knight Sir Guy of Warwick, who, for the love of fair Phelis, became a hermit, and died in a cave of craggy rocke, a mile distant from Warwick."

The history of Sir Guy, though now very properly resigned to children, was once admired by all readers of wit and taste: for taste and wit had once their childhood. Although of English growth, it was early a favourite with other nations: it appeared in French in 1525, and is alluded to in the old Spanish romance of Tirante el Blanco, which, it is believed, was written not long after the year 1430.-See advertisement to the French translation, 2 vols. 12mo.

The criginal whence all these stories are extracted, is a very ancient romance in old English verse, which is quoted by Chaucer as a celebrated piece even in his time, (viz.,

"Men speken of romances of price,
Of Horne childe and Ippotis,

Of Bevis, and Sir Guy," &c.

R. of Thop.)

and was usually sung to the harp at Christmas dinners and bridals, as we learn from Puttenham's Art of Poetry, 4to, 1589.

This ancient romance is not wholly lost. An imperfect copy in black-letter, "Imprynted at London—for Wylliam Copland," in 34 sheets, 4to, without date, is still preserved among Mr. Garrick's collection of old plays. As a specimen of the poetry of this antique rhymer, take his description of the dragon mentioned in verse 105 of the following ballad:

'A messenger came to the king.

Syr king, he sayd, lysten me now,
For bad tydinges I bring you.
In Northumberlande there is no man,
But that they be slayne everychone:
For there dare no man route,
By twenty myle rounde aboute,

For doubt of a fowle dragon,

That sleath men and beastes downe.
He is blacke as any cole,

Rugged as a rough fole;

His bodye from the navill upwarde
No man may it pierce it is so harde;
His neck is great as any summere ;1

He renneth as swift as any distrere ;2

Pawes he hath as a lyon:

All that he toucheth he sleath dead downe.

Great winges he hath to flight,

That is no man that bare him might.
There may no man fight him agayne,

But that he sleath him certayne:

For a fowler beast then is he,
Ywis of none never heard ye."

1 [Sumpter-horse.]

2 [A knight's tourneying-horse.]

GUY AND AMARANT.

UY journeys towards that sanctified ground

Whereas the Jew's fair city sometime stood,
Wherein our Saviour's sacred head was crowned,
And where for sinful man he shed his blood.

To see the sepulcher was his intent,
The tomb that Joseph unto Jesus lent.

With tedious miles he tired his weary

feet,

And passed desart places full of danger;
At last with a most woefull wight did meet,

A man that unto sorrow was no stranger,
For he had fifteen sons made captives all
To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall.

A giant called Amarant detained them,

Whom no man durst encounter for his strength, Who, in a castle which he held, had chained them.

Guy questions where, and understands at length, The place not far.-"Lend me thy sword," quoth he; "I'll lend my manhood all thy sons to free.'

With that he goes and lays upon the door

Like one that says, I must and will come in.

The giant never was so roused before,

For no such knocking at

his gate had been ;

So takes his keys and club, and cometh out, Staring with ireful countenance about.

"Sirra," quoth he, "what business hast thou

here?

Art come to feast the

crows about my

walls?

Didst never hear no ran

som can him clear

That in the compass of my

fury falls?

For making me to take a porter's pains,

With this same club I will dash out thy brains."

"Giant," quoth Guy, "y'are quarrelsome, I see; Choler and you seem very near of kin;

Most dangerous at the club belike you be;

I have been better armed, though now go But shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spite, Keen is my weapon, and shall do me right."

thin.

So draws his sword, salutes him with the same About the head, the shoulders, and the side, Whilst his erected club doth death proclaim,

Standing with huge Colossus' spacious stride, Putting such vigour to his knotty beam. That like a furnace he did smoke extreme.

But on the ground he spent his strokes in vain,
For Guy was nimble to avoid them still,
And ever ere he heav'd his club again,

Did brush his plated coat against his will:
Att such advantage Guy would never fail
To bang him soundly in his coate of mail.

Att last through thirst the giant feeble grew,

And said to Guy, "As thou'rt of human race, Show it in this, give nature's wants their due;

Let me but go and drink in yonder place; Thou canst not yield to 'me' a smaller thing Than to grant life that 's given by the spring."