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"Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

As e'er the moneth 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 Heav'n to flie."

And nowe the belle began to tolle,

And claryonnes to sound;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

And just before the officers

His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe,

Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
Ynn quiet lett mee die;
Praie Godde that ev'ry Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.
"Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers?
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

""Tys butt 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 saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:

"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."

And nowe the officers came ynne

To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, And thus to her dydd saie:

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

And ynne theyre hertes hym love:
"Teache them to runne the nobile race
Thatt I theyre fader runne;
Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu!
Yee officers leade onne."

Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

And dydd her tresses tere;

"Oh staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!"—

Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

"Tyll tyredd oute wythe 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 enshone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.

Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlett 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 ynne homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:

Yone diffraunt partes a godlie psaume

Moste sweetlie theye dyd 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.

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde, Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty 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 backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt:

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke easterne princes trick't:

And after them a multitude

Of citizenns dydd thronge;

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
"O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Washe mye soule clean thys daie!"
Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat

The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge

To hys most welcom fate.

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare:

"Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile!

Expos'd to infamie;

Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne!

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,

Thou wearest nowe a crowne;

And hast appoynted mee to die,

By power nott thyne owne. "Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;

I have beene dede till nowe,

And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne

For aie uponne my browe:

"Whylst thou, perhapps, for som 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 thye 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 his hedde awaie,

And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd speke and saie:

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

Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,

Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"

"Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richarde sayde;

"And maye ech one oure foes
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
And feede the carryon crowes."
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe

Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
His pretious bloude to spylle.

Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre

Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs

Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre: And to the people hee dyd saie:

"Beholde you see mee dye,

For servynge loyally mye kynge,

Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.

“As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, Ne quiet you wylle knowe: Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,

And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. "You leave your 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 hys knees,
A pray'r to Godde dyd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde
Most seemlie onne the blocke;

Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke:

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;

And teares, enow to washe❜t awaie,

Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre

Ynnto foure partes cutte;

And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.

One parte dyd 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;

Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate:

Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie synge!

MYNSTRELles songE.

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne bee,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,

Goune to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-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,

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

Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllow tree.

Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,

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

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

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

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,

Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train:
Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn,
Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn,
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,
With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and morn,
From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays;
In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,
That still they can recal those happier days.

II.

ON BATHING.

When late the trees were stript by winter pale,
Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green,
Or like the forest's silver-quiver'd queen,
On airy uplands met the piercing gale;
And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale,
Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen.
But since, gay-thron'd in fiery chariot sheen,
Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale;
She to the cave retires, high-arch'd beneath
The fount that laves proud Isis' towery brim:
And now, all glad the temperate air to breathe,
While cooling drops distil from arches dim,
Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath,
She sits amid the choir of naiads trim.'

III.

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S

MONASTICON.

Deem not, devoid of elegance, the sage,
By fancy's genuine feelings unbeguil'd,
Of pain ful pedantry the poring child;
Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page,
Now sunk by time, and Henry's fiercer rage.
Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smil'd
On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage
His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styl'd,
Intent. While cloister'd piety displays
Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictur'd stores.
Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways
Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers.

IV.

WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE.

Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle!
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile,
T' entomb his Britains slain by Hengist's guile:
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore:
Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil,
To victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,
Rear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd round,
Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line;
Or here those kings in solemn state were crown'd:

Studious to trace thy wond'rous origine,
We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.

V.

WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON-HOUSE.

From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art
Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs,
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start,
How to life's humbler scene can I depart?

My breast all glowing from those gorgeous tow'rs,
In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours!
Vain the complaint: for fancy can impart
(To fate superior, and to fortune's doom)
Whate'er adorns the stately-storied hall:
She, mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,
Can dress the graces in their Attic pall;
Bid the green landskip's vernal beauty bloom;
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.

VI.

TO MR. GRAY.

Not that her blooms are mark'd with beauty's hue,
My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings;
Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings!
While slowly-pacing through the churchyard dew,
At curfew-time, beneath the dark-green yew,
Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings;
Or, borne sublime on inspiration's wings,
Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clue
Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd:
Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay?
No, bard divine! For many a care beguil'd
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay,
For many a raptur'd thought, and vision wild,
To thee this strain of gratitude I pay.

VII.

While summer-suns o'er the gay prospect play'd, Through Surry's verdant scenes, where Epsom spreads

Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads,
And Hascombe's hill in towering groves array'd
Rear'd its romantic steep, with mind serene
I journey'd blithe. Full pensive I return'd;
For now my breast with hopeless passion burn'd.
Wet with hoar mists appear'd the gaudy scene,
Which late in careless indolence I past;
And Autumn all around those hues had cast,
Where past delight my recent grief might trace.
Sad change, that nature a congenial gloom
Should
wear, when most, my cheerless mood to chase,
I wish'd her green attire and wonted bloom!

VIII.

ON KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE AT WINCHESTER.
Where Venta's Norman castle still appears,
Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss,
And scatter'd flinty fragments clad in moss,
On yonder steep in naked state appears;
High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years,

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