JOURN, Iaplefs Caledonia, mourn

M

Thy banifh'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy fons, for valour long renown'd, Lie flaughter'd on their native ground: Thy hofpitable roofs no more Invite the ftranger to the door; In fmcky ruins fank they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner fees, afar, His all become the prey of war: Bethinks him of his babes and wife; Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life. Thy fwains are famith'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime, Thro' the wide-fpreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke: What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe, and merry lay, No more fhail cheer the happy day: No focial scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No trains but thofe of forrow flow, And nought be heard but founds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the flain Glide nightly o'er the filent plain. Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, Accurs'd to ages yet unborn! The fons against their fathers ftood; The parent shed his children's blood. Yet when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's foul was not appeas'd: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murd'ring fteel! The pious mother doom'd to death, Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath; The bleak wind whiftles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend;

And on the world doth pour
His glories in a golden fhow'r.
Darknesstrembling'forethehoftileray,

Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn: The brood obfcene, that own her gloomy fway,

Troop in her rear,and fly th'approach of morn. Pale fhiv'ring ghofts, that dread th' all-chearing [night.

light,

Quick as the lightning's flath glide to fepulchral

But whence the gladd'ning beam

That pours his purple (tream
O'er the long prospect wide?
'Tis Mirth. I fee her fit
In majefty of light,

With Laughter at her fide.
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air;
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltless ftrikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affliction's pow'r,
Fear not now wild Paffion's rage;
Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour,
Save the tardy hand of Age.

NowMirth hath heard the fuppliant Poet'spray`r: No cloud that rides the blat hall vex the troubled air.

$89. Ode to Leven Water. SMOLLET.

ON

N Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest fwain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure ftream! in whofe transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents ftain thy limpid fource,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That fweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polifh'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the fcaly brood
In myriads cleave thy cryftal flood:
The fpringing trout, in fpeckled pride;
The falmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The filver eel and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake.
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks, fo gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be feen;
And laffes, chanting o'er the pail;
And fhepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts refolv`d, and hands prepar'd,
The bleffings they enjoy to guard.

$90. Songe to Ella, Lerde of the Caftel of Bryftowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLEY.

OH

H thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Alla, the darlynge of futurity, Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be, As everlaftynge to pofteritye.

redde hue

And neighetobeamenged the poyntedd fpeeres,
Orr ynne blacke armoure ftaulke arounde
Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde,
And glowe ardurous onn the Castle steeres;
Or fierye round the mynfterr glare;
Let Brystowe stylle be made thie care;
Guardeytt frommefoemenne&confumyngefyre;
Lyche Avones ftreme enfyrke ytte rounde,
Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde,
Tyll ynne one flame all the whole worlde expyre.

$91. Briftowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin.

CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEY.
THE feather'd fongfter chaunticleer
Had wounde hys bugle horne,
And told the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne;
Kynge Edwarde fawe the rudie ftreakes
Of lyght eclypfe the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

"Thou'rt ryght," quod hee," for, by the Godde,
"That fyties enthron'd on hyghe,
"Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine,
"To-daie fhall furelie die."

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

His Knyghtes dydd orne hymm waite;
"Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie
"Hee leaves thys mortall state."
Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe.
Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate;
And to Syr Charles dydd goe.
But whenne hee came, his children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe.
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

O goode Syr Charles!" fayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." Speke boldlie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles, "Whatte fays thie traytour kynge?" "I greeve

to telle: Before yonne fonne "Does fromme the welkinne flye, "Hee hath uponne hys honour fworne "Thatt thou fhalt furelie die."

"Wee all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Of thatte I'm not affearde: "What bootes to lyve a little space? "Thanke Jefu, I'm prepar'd.

"Butte telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, "I'de fooner die to-daie

"Thanne lyve hys flave, as manie are,
"Tho' I should lyve for aie."
Thenne Canterlone hee dydde goe out,
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddynefs
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Thenne

"And none can faye, butt all mye lyfe
"I have hys wordyes kept;
"And fumm'd the actyonns of the daie
"Eche nyghte before I slept.
"I have a fpoufe, goe aske of her
"Yff I defyl'd her bedde?
"I have a kynge, and none can laie
"Blacke treafon onne my hedde.
"Ynne Lent, and one the holie eve,
"Fromm flefhe I dydd refrayne;
"Whie fhould I thenne appeare dismay'd'
"To leave thys worlde of payne?
"Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,
"I fhalle ne fee thye dethe;
"Mofte willynglie in thy just cause
"Do I refign my brethe.

"Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe !
"Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
"While Richard's fonnes exalt themselves,
"Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.
"Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,

"And godlie Henrie's reigne, "Thatt you dydd choppe your eafie daies "For those of bloude and peyne? "Whatte tho' I onne a fledde bee drawne, "And mangled by a hynde, "I do defye the traytour's pow'r,

"He can ne harm my mynde; "Wyatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole, "Mye lymbes fhall rotte ynne ayre, "And ne ryche monument of braise "Charles Bawdin's name fhall bear; "Yet ynne the holie booke above,

"Whyche tyme can't eat awai, "There wythe the fervants of the Lorde "Mye name shall lyve for aie. "Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne "I leve thys mortall lyfe;

"Farewell, vayne worlde, and alle that's deare, "Mye fonnes and loving wyfe! "Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,

"As e'er the month of Maie;

"Nor woulde I even wyfhe to lyve, "Wyth my dere wyfe to ftaie."

Quod Canynge, "Tys a goodlie thynge
"To bee prepar'd to die;

"And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe
"To Godde ynne heaven to flie."
And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to founde;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A-prauncyng onne the grounde;
And jufte before the officers,
Hys lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dyfmalle dynne.

"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
"Yune quiet lett mee die;

"Praie Godde, that every Chriftian foule "Maye kooke onne dethe as I.

"Sweet Florence! why these brinie tears;
"Theye washe my foule awaie,
"And almoft make mee wifhe for lyfe,

66 Wyth thee, fweete dame, to ftaie, "Tys but a journie I fhalle goe Úntoe the lande of blyffe; "Nowe, as a proofe of hufbande's love, "Receive thys holie kyffe." Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her faie, Tremblynge thefe wordyes fpoke, "Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! "My herte ys welle nyghe broke: "Ah, fweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Wythoute thye lovyinge wyfe!

"The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, "Ytt eke fhall ende mye lyfe.'

And nowe the officers came ynne

To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Who turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, And thus toe her dydd faie:

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

"Trufte thou ynne Godde above, "And teache thye fonnes to feare the Lorde, "And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

"Teache them to runne the nobile race

"Thatt I theyre fader runne:

"Florence! fhould dethe thee take-adieu!
"Yee officers, lead onne."

Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,
And dydd her treffes tere;

"Oh! ftaie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe!**
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare;
Till tyredd oute wyth ravynge loud,

Shee fellen onne the flore;

Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a fledde hee mounted thenne,

Wythe lookes fulle brave and fwete;
Lookes, thatt enfhoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before him went the council-menne,
Ynne fcarlette robes and golde,
And taffils fpanglynge ynne the funne
Muche glorious to beholde:

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
Appeared to the fyghte,

Alle cladd ynn homelie ruffett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:

Ynn diffraunt partes a godlie pfaume
Mofte fweetlie theye dydd chaunt;

Behynde theyre backes fyx mynftrelles came,

Who tun'd the ftrunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,

From rescue of kynge Henries friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bold as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawn onne a clothe-layde fledde,

By two blacke ftedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:

Behynde

Belynde hym five-and-twentye moe
Of archers ftronge and toute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route:

Seine Jamefes Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes fyx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the ftrunge bataunt:

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of fcarlett deckt;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Eafterne princes trickt:

And after them a multitude

Of citizens dydd thronge;

The wyndowes were all full of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe croffe,
Syr Charles dydd turne and faie,
"O Thou, thatt faveft manne fromme fynne,
"Wash maye foule clean thys daye."
Att the grete mynfter windowe fat
The kynge ynn mycle ftate,

To fee Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To bys moft welcom fate.

Soon as the fledde drewe nygh enowe,

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd ftande uppe, And thus hys wordes declare: "Thou feeft mee, Edwarde! traytour vile! Expos'd to infamie;

"But be affur'd, disloyall manne!
"I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou wearest nowe a crowne,
And haft appoynted mee to dye,
"By power nott thyne owne.

Thou thynkest I fhall dye to-daie;
"I have beene dede 'till nowe,

"And foone fhall lyve to weare a crowne
"For aie uponne my browe:

yeares,

Whylft thou, perhapps for fome few "Shalt rule thys fickle lande To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule "Twixt kynge and tyrant hande: Thye pow'r unjuft, thou traytour slave! "Shall falle onne thy owne bedde." Fromm out of hearyng of the kinge Departed thenne the fledde.

Kynge Edwarde's foule ruth'd to hys face;
Hee turn'd hys head awaie,
And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd fpeke and faie:
"To him that foe-much-dreaded dethe
"Ne ghaftlie terrors brynge,

"Beholde the manne! hee fpake the truthe, "Hee's greater than a kynge!

"So lett hym die!" Duke Richard fayde; "And maye echone our foes "Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie exe, "And feede the carryon crowes."

And now the horfes gentlie drewe

Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle!
The exe dydd glifterr ynne the funne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.
Syr Charles dydd uppe the fcaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre

Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gain'd in the bloudie warre:
And to the people hee dydd faie,
"Beholde you fee mee dye
"For fervynge loyally mye kynge,
"Mye kynge moft rightfullie.

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
"Ne quiet you wylle knowe;

"Your fonnes and husbandes shall be flayne, "And brookes withe bloude fhalle flowe. "You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, "Whenne ynne adverfitye;

"Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
"And for the true caufe dye."

Thenne hee, wyth preeftes, uponne his knees,
A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Befeechynge hym unto hymfelfe
Hys partynge foule to take.

Then kneelynge downe, he layd hys heede
Moft feemlie 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 fcaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to washe 't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
The bloudie exe hys bodie fayre

Ynnto foure parties cutte;

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

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynter-tower,

And one from off the caftle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure:

The other onne Seynete Powle's goode gate,
A dreery fpectacle;

His hedde was plac'd onne the hygh croffe,
Ynne hyghe-ftreete moft nobile.
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;
Godde profper long our kynge,
And grant hee may, wyth Bawdin's soule,
Ynne heaven Godd's mercie fynge!