"But thou, my son, heed and obey my

word;

"Seek not to mingle in the wild affray,、

"Far from the wing'd shaft and gleaming sword,

"(Patient await the issue of the day.)

"North of our Camp there stands a rising mound,

66

(Thy guide awaits to lead thee on the way,)

Thence shalt thou rule the prospect wide around,

"And view each chance, each movement of the fray.

"If righteous fate to me the conquest yield,

"Then shall thy noble birth to all be

known;

"Then boldly seek the centre of the field, "And, midst my laurel'd bands my son

I'll own;

But if blind chance that seld' determines right,

VOL. III.

"Robs me at once of empire and renown, "Be sure thy father's eyes are clos'd in night,

"Life were disgrace, when chance had reft mycrown.

"No means are left thee then, but instant flight,

"In dark concealment must thou veil

thy head;

"On Richard's friends their fellest rage and spite,

His foes will wreak, and fear ev'n
Richard dead.

Begone my son! this one embrace!

away!

"Some short reflections claim this aw

ful night:

Ere from the East peep-forth this glim

m'ring day,

My knights attend to arm me for the fight."

Once more I knelt, he clasp'd my lifted

hands,

Bless'd me, and seemed to check a strug

gling tear,

Then led me forth to follow his commands, O'erwhelm'd with tend'rest grief, suspense, and fear.

What need of more? Who knows not the

event

Of that dread day, that desp'rate foughten field,

Where, with his wond'rous deeds, and prowess spent,

By numbers o'erpower'd, my sire was kill'd?

A son no more, what course was left to tread,

To whom apply, or whither should I

wend?

Back to my tutor's roof by instinct led, My orphan footsteps did I pensive bend.

*The whole continuance of this action, is said to have been but two hours, during which, the King's personal bravery was astonishingly great

O'erruling fate against my wishes wrought; That pious man, snatch'd from this frail abode,

Had found the blessing he so long had sought,

The way to immortality and God.

With flowing eyes I left the sacred bow'r, And with relying heart to heaven did

bend
;

To God my supplication did I pour,

To God, the mourner's best and surest

friend,

That he would guide meto some safe retreat, Where daily toil my daily bread might

earn,

Where pious peace might soothe ambition's heat,

And my taught heart sublimer ardor learn.

-all I ask'd in thee was lent,

He heard me

Thou lib'ral proxy of my gracious God! Thou paid'st my industry with rich content, And giv'st my weary age this soft abode*.

Richard Plantagenet, died in December, 1550 (the

Uninjur'd stand! and echo long repeat,

Round the dear walls, benevolence, and Moyle.

fourth year of Edward VI. reign) aged 81. Consequently he enjoyed his little comfortable retreat, scarcely four years.

The following is still to be found in the old register of the parish of Eastwell.

"Richard Plantagenet, was buried the 22nd day of December, 1559"

This last piece of intelligence, was transmitted by a very sensible and worthy clergyman now living, who kindly went from Wye to Eastwell, to collect as many circumstances as he could, to confirm the authenticity of this singular story. To the transcript of the register, he subjoins as follows:

"It is observable, that in the old register, there is perfixed to the name of every person of noble blood, such a mark as this. At the name of Richard Plantagenet, there is the same mark (and it is the first so distinguished only, with this difference, that there is a line run across it, thus X."