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The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade ; | The sainted well, where yon bleak hill declines, The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky Hlas oft been conscious of those happy hours; ground,

But now the hill, the river crown'd, with pines, August and hoary, o'er the sloping dale, And sainted well have lost their cheering

The Gothic abbey rears its sculptur'd tow'rs; pow'ss; Dull thro' the roofs resounds the whistling gale, For thou art gone. My guide, my friend! oh Dark solitule among the pillars low'rs.

where, Where e yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves, Mi rend'rest wish, my heart to thee was bue;

Where bast thoufled, and left me here behind! And solemu shade a chapel's sad remains, Where yon scath'd poplar through the win

Oh now cut off each passage to my mind! dows waves,

How dreary is the gulph! how dark, how voidy And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains. The trackless shores that never were repassid! There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind,

Dread separation on the depth untried, Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where,

Hope faiters, and the soul recoils aghast! Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staf! reclin'd, Wide round the spacious liearens 'I cast my eyes:

Pores on the graves, and sighs a broken pray'r. And shall these stars glow with immortal fire? High o'er thepines, that with their dark’ningshade Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies?

And could thy bright, thy living soul expire! Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears Its crumbling turrets; still its tow'ry head Far be the thonght! The pleasures inost sublime,

A warlike inien, a sullen granuleur wcars. The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear, So, 'midst the spow of age, a boastful air

The tow'ring wish that scorns the bounds of

time, Still on the war-worn vet'ran's brow atiends; Still his big bones his youthful.prime declare,

Chill'd in this vale of death but languish here. Tho' tremblingo'er the feeblecrutch he bends. So plant the vine in Norway's wintsy land, Wild round the gates the disky wall-Auw'ssercep,

The languid stanzer feeliły buds, and dies: Where oft the knights the beauteous dames Yet there's a clime where Virtne shall expand have led;

Withi godlike strength beneath her Dalive Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap,

skieg! Where bays and ivy o'er the fringments spread. The lonely shepherd on the mountain's side 'Twas here our sires, exulting from the figlit,

With patience waits the rosy-op'ning day; Great in their bloodyarıns, march'd o'er the lea, The mariner at midnight's darksome tide Eyeing their rescued fields with proud delight!

With cheerful hope expects the morning tas: Now lost to them! and, ali : how chang'd Thus I, on life's storm-heaten ocean toss'd, to me!

In mental vision view the happy shore, This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze,

Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast, The dear idea of my Pollio bring;

Where fate and deaih divide ibe friends no So shone the moon thro' these soft-nodding trees,

more! When here we wanderd in the eyes of spring. Oh that some kind, some pifying kindred shade, When April's smiles the flow'ry lawn adorn, Who now perhaps frequents his solemn grove,

And madest cowslips deck the streamlet's side; Would tell the awful secrets of, ihe dead, When fragrant orchards to the roseate morn And from any eyes the mortal film remore! Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colors 3yed :

Vain is the wish — yet surely not in vain

Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire So fair a blossom gentde Pollio wore,

Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles 34 These were theemblems of his healthful mind; pain, To hin the letter'd page display'd its Jure, To him bright Fancy all her wealth resign'd; I to fan this spark of heaven; this ray divine,

And wings his spirit with sublime desire ! Him with her purest flames the Muse endow'd, Sull

, 0 any soul! still be shy dear emplok ; Flaines never to th' illiberal thought allied :

Sull thus to vander tbro' the shades be thine, The sacred sisters led where Virtue glowd And well thy breast with visionary joy!

In all her charms; he saw, he felt, and died. O partner of my infant griefs and joys!

So to the dark-brow'd wood, or sacred mouut, Bigwith thescenes now past,myhearto'erflows;

In antient dys, the lioly seers retird; Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rise,

And, led in vision, drank at Şiloe's fount, And dwells luxurious on her melting wocs.

While rising ecstasies their bosonis fir'd. , Ost with the rising sun, when life was new, Restor'd creation bright before them rose,

Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee;. The burning deserts smil'd as Eden's plains : Oft by the moon have brush'd the evening dew, One friendly shade the wolf and lambki chose ; When all was fearless innocence and glee. The flow ry mountainsung, Messiah reigns



&. 469 Tho' fainter raptures my cold breast inspire, Andi, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,

Yet let me ost frequent this solemn scene; Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Oft ro the abbey's shatter'd walls retire, (tween. Whilst the warm blool bedcws my reins,

What tiine the moonshine dimly gleams bc- And unimpair'd remembrance reigns ;
There, where the cross in huary ruin nods, Resentment of my country's fate

Andweeping yewso'ershade the letter'dsiones, Within my filial breast shall bear;
While midnight silence wraps these drearaborles, And, spite of her insulting foe,
And souths me wandering o'er my kindred y syinpathising verse shall flow:

Mouri, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Lct kindled Fancy view the glorious morn,

Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!"
When from the bilisting graves the just shall
All Nature smiling; and, by angels borne, Crise,
Messiah's cross får blazing o'er the skies!

§ 86. Ode to Mitih. SMOLLET. 85. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET.

PARENT of joy! heart-casing Mirth! MOURX, hapless Caledonia, mourn

Whether of Venus or Aurora born, Thy banish d peace, thy laurels torn!

Yet Goddess sure of heavenly birth, Thy sons, for valor long renown'd,

Visit benign a son of Grief forlorn : Lie slaughter'd on their native ground:

Thy glitt'ring colors gay Thy hospitable roofs no more

Around him, Mirth, display; Invite thc stranger to the door ;

And o'er his raptur'd

sense In smoky ruins sunk they lic,

Diffuse thy living influence : The monunients of cruelty.

So shall each hill, in purer green array'd, The wretched owner sees, afir,

And Aower-adorn'd in new-born beauty His all become the prey of war:


[the shade, Bethinks him of his babe and wife ;

The grove shall smooth the horrors of Then smites his breast, and curses life.

And streamsin murmurs shall forget to flow. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,

Shine, Goddess, shine with unremitted ray,[day. Where once they fed their wanton Aocks : And gild (a second sun) with brighter beain our Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ;

Labor with thee forgets his pain, Thy infants perish on the plain.

And aged Poverty can smile with thee; What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,

If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain, Thro' the wide-spreading waste of time,

And weak th' uplisted arın of tyranny. Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,

The inorning opes on high still shone with undiminish'd blaze?

His universal eye; Thy tow'ring spirit now is bruke,

And on the world doth pour Thy neck is bended to the yoke :

His glories in a golden show's. What foreign arms could never quell,

Lo!Darknesstrembling'fore thehostileray, By civil rage and rancor fell.

Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn: The rural pipe and merry lay,

The brood obscene, that own her gloomy No more shall cheer the happy day :

sway, No social scenes of gay delight

Troopin her rear, and Ay th'approach of morn. Beguile the dreary winter night:

Pale shiv ring ghosts, that dread th' all-cheering To strains but those of sorrow flow,


(night. And nought be heard but sounds of woc;

Quick as the lightning's flash glide to sepulchral While the pale phantoins of the slain

But whence the gladd’ning beam Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

That pours his purple stream Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn,

O'er the long prospect wide?

"Tis mirth. I see her sit Accurs’d to ages yet unborn!

In majesty of light,
The sons against their fathers stood;
The parent shed his children's blood.

With Laughier at her side.
Yet when the rage of battle ccas'd,

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near The victor's soul was not appeas'd :

Wide waves her glancing wing in air ; The naked and forlorn must feel

And young Wit Alings his pointed dart, Ievouring flames and murd'ring steel!

That guiltless strikes the willing heart.

Fear not now AMiction's pow'r, The pious mother doom'd to death,

Fear not now wild Passion's rage; Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath;

Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour, The bleak wind whistles round her head,

Save the iardy hand of Age. Her helpless orphans cry for bread;

Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet's pray't: Berest of shelter, food, and friend,

No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the She views the shades of night descend;

troubled air.
Hh 3

$ 87.

And neighe to be amenged the poynctedd speeres, $ 87. Ode ta Leven Water. Smollet.

Orr ynne blacke armoure staulke arounde On Leven's banks, while free to rove,

Embatteld Brystowe, once thie grounde, And tune the rural pipe to love,

And glowe ardurous onn the Castle steeres ; 1 envied not the happiest swain

Or fierye round the mynster glare; That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Let Brystowe stylle be made thie care ; Pure stream! in whose transparent wave Guardeytisrommetvemennean consumyugefyre; My youthful limbs I wont to lave;

Lyche Avones streme ensyrke ytte rounde, No iorrents stain thy limpid source,

Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, Tyllynne one flame all the whole worlde expyre.
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
Wi.h white, round, polish'd pebbles spread ;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood, $ 89. Bristowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr
In myriads cleave thy crystal food :

Charles Baudin.
The springing troui, in speckled pride ;
The salmon, inonarch of the tide;

CHATTERTON, under the name of Rowltr. The ruthless pike, intent on war;

The feather'd songster chaunticleer The silver eel and nouled par.

Had wounde hys bugle horne, Devolving from thy parent lake.

And told the earlie villager
A charming maze ihy waters make,

The commynge of the mome;
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine, Kynge Edwarde saw the rudie streakes
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

Of lyght eclypse the greie;
Sull on thy banks, so gaily green,

And herde the raten's crokynge throte
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen;
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail;

Proclayme the fated daie.
And shepherds, piping in the dale;

" Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godde, And antient faith, that knows no guile;

“ That syttes enthron'd on hyglie, And industry, em brown'd with toil;

" Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine, And hearts resolv’d, and hands prepar'd,

" To-daie shall surelie die." The blessings they enjoy to guard.

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

His Knyghtes dydd onne hymn waite; § 88. Songelo Ælla, Lorde of the Castelof Bry

“ Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie stowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, “ Hee leaves thys mortall state." under the name of Rowley.

Syr Canterlone thenne hendedd lowe. On thou, orr what renaynes of thee,

Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; Ælla, the darlynge of futurity,

Hec journey'd to the castle-gale; Leit thys mie songe bolde as thic courage be, And to Syr Charles dydd goe, As everlastynge to posteritye.

But whenne hee came, his children twaime, Whaune Dacya's sonnes, whose hayres of bloude- And eke hys lovynge wyfe. redde hue

(ing due, Wythe brịnie tears dydd wett the floore, Lyche kynge-cuppes brastynge wythe the morn- For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. Arraung d ynne eare arraie,

O goode Syr Charles !" sayd Canterlone, Upponne the lethale daje,

“ Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore ;

Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave SyrCharles, Than dyddst thou furiouse stande,

"Whatle says thie traylour kynge" And bie thie valyante hande Beesprengedd all the nees wythe gore,

“I greeve to telle i Before yonne sonne

Does fromme the welkinne flye, Drawn bie thyne anlace felle,

“ Hee hath uponne hys honnor sworne Downe to the depihe of helle

“ Thatt thou shalt surelie die." Thousands of Dacyanns went; Brystowannes, menne of my hte,

“ Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; Ydar'd the bloudie fighte,

“ Of thatte I 'm noi affearde : And actedd deeds full quent.

“ What bootes to lyve a little space?

“ Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd. Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att reste) Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth beste,

“ Baite telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, Whetherr upponne' the bloude-cnibrewedd

“L'de sovner die to-daie Or whare thou kennst from farre [pleyne,

" Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, The dysmall crye of warre,

Tho'l should lyve for aie." Or seest soinme mou'atayne made of corse of ]Thenne Canterlone hee dydde goc out, sleyne;

To telle the maior straite Orr seest the hatched stede,

To gett all thynges ynne reddyness Y praunceynge o'er the mede,

For goode Syr Charlescs fate.


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Theune Maister Canynge saughte the kynge, “ We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles ; And felle down onne hys knee;

“ Whait bootes yu howe or wheline? " I'm come,” quoth hce, " unto your grace Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate “ To move your clerneneye."

Of all wee mortall menne. • Thenne quod the kynge, “ Your tale speke out, “ Saye why, my friend, thie honcst soul You have been much oure friendc;

“ Runs overr att thyne eye; “ Whatever youre requeste may bee,

Is ytte for my most welcome doome “ We wylle to ytte attende.

Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" “ My nobile liege! all my request

Quod godlie Canynge, “I do wespe, “ Ys for a nobile knyghte,

“ Thart thou sve soone must dye, 46 Who, tho' may hap he has done wronge, “ And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfc

He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte: " "Tis thys thatt wettes myne ege. ** Hee has a spouse and children twaine, " Thenne drie the teatres thatt out thyne cyt “ Alle rewyn'd are for aie;

“ From godlie fountaines sprynge; Yff-thatt you are resuly'd to lett

“ Dethe I despise, and alle the pow'r, “ Charles Bawdin die to daic."

“Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. " Speke nott of such a traytour vilc," “Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means The kynge ynne fury sayde;

“ I shall resigne iny lyfe, " Before the ev'ning starre doth shcene, “ The Godde i serre vrylle soon provyde " Bawdin shall loose hys hedde :

For bothe mye sonnes and wife: " Justice does loudlie for hym calle

“ Before I sawe thy, lyghtsome suuine, " And hee shall have hys meede ,

“ Thys was appointed mee '; Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else " Shall mortal Rianne repine or grudge Atte present doe you neede?"

" What Godde ordeynes to bec? - My nobile liege!" goodle Canynge sayde,

“ Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, " Leave justice to our Godde,

“ Whan thousands dy'd arounde ; " And laye the yronne rule asyde,

" Whan smokynge streams of crimson bloode Be thyne the olyve rodde

“Imbrewd the fatten'd grounde ! " Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, “ Howe dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte, “ The best were synners greté ;

“.That cutte the airie waie, " Christ's vycars only knowes ne synne. “Myghte notte finde passage toe my harte, “ Ynne aile thys mortall state,

“ And close myne eyes for aie ? " Let mercie rule thyne infante reigne, “ And shall I now, for féerd of dethe,

« 'Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure ; “ Looke wanne and bee dysmay't? “ From race to race thy fainilie

“ Ne! fromm my herte flie chitdlyshe feere, “ Alle sov’reigns shall endure ;

"Be alle the manne display'd. “ But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou " Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, “ Beginne thy infante reigne,

“ And guarde thee and thyne sorine, " Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows “ Yf 'tis hys wylle ; but yff 'tis nott, Wyll never lonng remayne."

Why thenne hys wylle be doune, Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile

My honeste friende; my faulte has beene “ Has scorn'd my pow'r and mee;

“ To serve Goude and mye prynce ; "" Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne " And thatt I no tyme-server am, “ Intreate my clemencye?"

“ My dethe wylle soone convynce. ** My noble liege! the truly brave

“ Ynne London citye was I borne, Wylle val'rous actions prize,

“Of parents of grete note; ** Respect a brave and nobile inynde,

My fadre dydd a mobile arms “ Altho'ynne enemics."

" Emblazon onne hys cote : " Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heav'n “ I make no double butt he ys gone “ That dydd mee beinge gyve,

“ Where soone I hope to goe; I will noit taste a bitt of breade

" Where wee for ever shall bee blest, " Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

“ From oute the reech of woe : «« By Marie, and all Seinctes ynne heav'n, “ He taught mee justice and the laws “'Thys sunne shall be hys laste."

Wyth pitie to unite; Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, “ And eke hee taughie mee howe to knowe And from the presence paste,

“ The wronge cause fromm the ryghte: With herte brimm-fulle of gnawynge grief, “ Hee taught mee wythe a prudent hande Hee to Sir Charles dydd goe,

" To feede the hungrie poore, And satte hymin down uponne a stoole, “ Ne lette mye servants drive awaie And tears beganne to Howe.

“The hungric fromine my doore :

Hh 4

" And


And none can saye, burt all mye lyfe po Sweet Florence ! why these brinie tcars; “ I have hy, wordyes kept ;

“ Theye washe my soule awaie, “ And summ'd the actyonns of the daie “ And almost make mee wishe for lyse, " Eche nyghtę before I slept.

· Wyth thee, sweete danie, to staic. “ I have a spouse, goe aske of her

“ 'Tys but a journie I shalle goe “ Yf I defyld her bedde?

“ Untoe the lande of blysse ; I have a kynge, and none can laie

" Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, “ Blackę ireason onne my hedde.

“ Receive thys holie kyssc.” • Ynne Lent, and opne the holie eve,

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, “ Frojnm feshe I dydd refrayne;

Tremblynge these wordyes spoke, “ Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd “ Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! “ To leave thys worlde of payne?

My herte ys welle nyghe broke: “Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,

“Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goc “ I shalle ne see thye dethe;

• Wythoute i hye lovyinge wyfe! “ Moste willynglie in thy just cause

“ The cruelle axe thiasi cuites thye necke, “ Do I resign my breihe.

“ Ytt eke shall ende mye lyfc.* “Oh fickle people ! rewyn'd londe !

And nowe the officers came ynne " Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe ;

To brynge Syr Charles awaie, “ While Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, Who turnedd ioe lys lorynge wyfe,

“ Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. And thus toe her dydd saie : “ Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,

goc to lyfe, and not to dethe ; • And godlie Henrie's reigne,

“ Truste thou yune Godde above, “ Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies " And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde, “ For those of bloude aud peyne !

“ And ynne theyre hertes lym love: “ Whatte tho' I onnc a sledde bee drawne, " Teache them to runne ihe nobile race “And mangled by a hynde,

“ Thatt I theyre fader runre : " I do defye the traytour's pow'r,

" Florence! should dethe thee take adieu ! • He cau ne harm my mynde ;

Yee officers, lead onne.” • Wyatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole, Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,

And dydd her tresses tere; " And ne ryche monument of brasse

“ Oh! staie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe S* “ Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; Syr Charles thienne dropt a teare; “ Yet ynne the holie booke above,

"Till tyredd oute wyth ravynge loude, " Whyche tyne can't eat awai,

Shee fellen onne the fore; “ There wythe the servants of the Lorde Syr Charles exerted alle lys myghte, Mye name shall lyve for aie.

And march'd fromm oute the dore. “ Thenne welcoine dethe! for lyfe eterne Uponne a sledde hec mounted thenne, " I leve thys mortall lyfe ;

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete; “ Farewell, vayne worlde, and alle that's deare, Lookes, thatt enshoone ne moe concern “ Mye sonnes and loving wyfe !

Thanne anie ynue the strete. « Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,

Before him went the council-menue, “ As e'er the month of Maie ;

Ynne scarlette robes and golde, “ Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.”

Muche glorious lo beholde : Quod Canynge, “ 'Tys a goodlie thynge

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next “ To bee prepar'd to die ;

Appeared to the syghie, And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe

Alle cladd ynn homelie russett weedes, • To Godde yone heaven to Alie.!'

Of godlie monkysh plyghte: And nowe she bell beganne to tolle,

Yun ditfraunt partes a godlie psaume And claryonnes to sounde ;

Must sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, A-prauncyng onne the grounde;

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt. And juste before the officers,

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came; Hys lovynge wyfe came yone,

Echone the bowe dydd bende, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,

From rescue of kynge Henries friends Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

Syr Charles forr to defend. • Sweet Florence ! nowe I praie forbere, Bold as a lyon came Syr Charles, “ Ynne quiet lett mee die;

Drawn ón a clothe-layde slede, « Praig Godde, that every Christian soule By two blacke stedes ynne trappyoges white, " Maye looke onne deihe as I

'Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:


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