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“ 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.


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.




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Ah mourn, thou lov'd retreat! no more
Shall classic steps thy scenes explore!
When morn's pale rays but saintly peep
O'er yonder oak-crown'd airy steep,
Who now shall climb its brows to view
The length of land-cape, ever new,
Where summer ilings, in careless pride,
Her varied venture 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 hali:
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 custoin'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?
Wbo, 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 pacid,
With azure flow'rets idly grac’d!
Unpotic'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 smild:
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.



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 : 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,

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,

In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours !

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;

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


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:

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

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,




Old Arthur's board: on the capacious round

“ These fellowships are pretty things, Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd,

We live indeed like petty kings: In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.

But who can bear to waste his whole age Though join’d by magic skill with many a rhyme,

Amid the dullness of a college, The Druid frame unhonour'd falls a prey

Debarr'd the common joys of life, To the slow vengeance of the wizard time,

And that prime bliss-a loving wise ! And fade the British characters away ;

O! what's a table richly spread Yet Spenser's page, that claunts in verse sublime

Without a woman at its head! Those chiefs, shall live unconscious of decay.

Would some snug benefice but fall,

Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all!

To officers I'd bid adieu,
Of Dean, Vice Pres.-of Bursar too;

Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,

Come, tithes, and house, and fruitful fields !" Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd, Too fond of freedom and of ease And thought my way was all through fairy ground, A patron's vanity to please, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun :

Long time he watches, and by stealth, Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! Each frail incumbent's doubtful health ; While pensive memory traces back the round,

At length-and in his fortieth year, Which fills the varied interval between ;

A living drops-two hundred clear ! Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. With breast elate beyond expression, Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure He hurries down to take possession, No more return, to cheer my evening road!

With rapture views the sweet retreatYet still one joy remains, that not obscure,

“ What a convenient house! how neat! Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd,

For fuel here's sufficient wood:
From youth's gay dawn to manbood's prime mature; Pray God the cellars may be good!
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd.

The garden-that must be new plann'd-
Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand?

O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. 1746. The flow'ry shrub of thousand dyes:-

Yon wall, that feels the southern ray, When now mature in classic knowledge,

Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay:
The joyful youth is sent to college,

While thick beneath its aspect warm
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred-in Anna's reign,

O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,

From which, ere long, of golden gleam And thus, in form of humble suitor, Bowing accosts a reverend tutor.

Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:

This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy, “ Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,

We'll alter to a modern privy:
And this my eldest son of vine ;
My wife's ambition and my own

Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,

An avenue so cool and dim,
Was that this child should wear a gown ;

Shall to an arbour, at the end,
I'll warrant that his good behaviour
Will justify your future favour;

In spite of gout, entice a friend.
And for his parts, to tell the truth,

My predecessor lov'd devotionMy son's a very forward youth;

But of a garden had no notion.” Has Horace all by heart-you'd wonder

Continuing this fantastic farce on, And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.

He now commences country parson.

To make his character entire,
If you'd examine-and admit him,

He weds—a cousin of the 'squire;
A scholarship would nicely fit him:
That he succeeds 'tis ten to one;

Not over weighty in the purse,
Your vote and interest, Sir!"-'Tis done.

But many doctors have done worse: Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,

And though she boasts no charms divine,

Yet she can carve and make birch wine. Are with a scholarship completed:

Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel, A scholarship but half maintains,

Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel ; And college rules are heavy chains :

Finds his church-wardens have discerning In garret dark he smokes and puns,

Both in good liquor and good learning; A prey to discipline and duns;

With tithes his barns replete he sees, And now intent on new designs,

And chuckles o'er huis surplice fees;
Sighs for a fellowship—and fines.

Studies to find out latent dues,
When nine full tedious winters past,
That utmost wish is crown'd at last :

And regulates the state of pews;
But the rich prize no sooner got,

Rides a sleek mare with purple housing, Again he quarrels with his lot:

To share the monthly club's carousing;


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