Whyzz dreare alonge, and songes of terror synges,

Such songes as alwaies clos'd in lyfe eterne.
Hurld by such strength along the ayre theie
burne,
[bloude;
Not to be quenched butte ynn Normannes
Wherere theie came they were of lyfe forlorn,
And alwaies followed by a purple floude;
Like cloudes the Normanne arrowes did de-
scend,
[end.
Like cloudes of carnage full in purple drops dyd
Nor, Leofwynus, dydst thou still estande;
Full soon thie pheon glytted in the aire;
The force of none but thyne and Harolds hande
Could hurle a javlyn with such lethal geer;
Itte whyzzd a ghastlie dynne in Normannes ear,
Then thundrynge dyd upon hys greave alyghte,
Pierce to his hearte, and dyd hys bowels tear,
He closed hys eyne in everlastynge nyghte;
Ah! what avayld the lyons on his creste!
His batchments rare with him upon the grounde
was prest.

Wylliam agayne ymade his bowe-ends meet,
And hie in ayre the arrowe wynged his waie,
Descendyng like a shafte of thunder fleete,
Lyke thunder rattling at the noon of daie,
Onne Algars sheelde the arrowe dyd assaie,
There throghe dyd peerse, and stycke into
his groine;

In grypynge torments on the feelde he laie,
Tille welcome dethe came in and clos'd his eyne;
Distort with peyne he laie upon the borne,
Lyke sturdie elms by stormes in uncothe wry-
thynges torne.

Alrick his brother, when he this perceevd,
He drewe his swerde, his lefte hande helde a
speere,
[steede,

Towards the duke he turnd his prauncyng
And to the Godde of Heaven he sent a prayre;
Then sent his lethal javlyn in the ayre,
On Hue de Beaumontes backe the javclyn came,
Thro his redde armour to hys harte it tare,
He felle and thondred on the place of fame;
Next with his swerde he 'sayld the sieur De Roe,
And braste his sylver helme so furyous was the
blowe.

But Willyam, who had seen hys prowesse great, And feared muche how farre his bronde might goe,

Tooke a stronge arblaster, and bigge with fate From twangynge iron sente the fleetynge floe. As Alric hoistes hys arme for dedlie blowe, Which, han it came, had been Du Roees laste, The swyfte-wynged messenger from Willyams bowe

Quite throwe his arme into his syde ypaste; His eyne shotte fyre, lyke blazyng starre at nyghte, [fyghte. He grypd his swerde, and felle upon the place of

O Alfwolde, saie; howe shalle I synge of thee,
Or telle howe manie dyd benethe thee falle;
Not Haroldes self more Normanne knyghtes
did slee,

Not Haroldes self did for more praises call;
How shall a penne like myne then shew it all?
Lyke thee, their leader, eche Brystowyanne
foughte;

Lyke thee their blaze must be canonical, Fore theie, like thee, that daie bewrecke yroughte:

Did thirtie Normannes fall upon the grounde, Full half a score from thee and theie receive their fatale wounde.

First Fytz Chivelloys felt thie direful force; Nete did hys helde out brazen sheelde availe; Eftsoones throwe that thie drivynge speare did peerce,

Nor was ytte stopped by his coate of mayle; Into his breaste it quicklie did assayle; Out ran the bloude, like hygra of the tyde; With purple stayned all hys adventayle; In scarlet was his cuishe of sylver dyde: Upon the bloudie carnage house he laie, Whylst hys long sheelde dyd gleem with the Sun's rysyng ray.

Next Fescampe felle; O Chrieste, how harde his fate

To die the leckedst knyghte of all the thronge;
His sprite was made of malice deslavate,
Ne shoulden find a place in anie songe.
The broch'd keene javlyn hurld from honde so
stronge

As thine came thundrynge on his crysted beave;
Ah! neete avayld the brass or iron thonge,
With mightie force his skulle in twoe dyd cleave,
Fallyng he shooken out his smokyng braine,
As witherd okes or elmes are hewne from off the
playne.

Nor, Norcie, could thie myghte and skilfulle
lore
[speere;
Preserve thee from the doom of Alfwold's
Couldste thou not kenne, most skyll'd After-

la-goure8,

How in the battle it would wythe thee fare? When Alfwolds javelyn, rattlynge in the ayre, From hande dyvine on thie habergeon came, Oute at thy backe it dyd thie hartes bloud bear, It gave thee death and everlastynge fame; Thy deathe could onlie come from Alfwolde [harme. As diamondes onlie can its fellow diamonds

arme,

Next sire Du Mouline fell upon the grounde,
Quite throughe his throte the lethal javlyn
preste,
[wounde;

His soule and bloude came roushynge from the
He closd his eyen, and opd them with the blest.
It can ne be I should bebight the rest,
That by the myghtie arme of Alfwold felle,
Paste bie a penne to be counte or expreste,

8 The word astrologer used sometimes to be expressed asterlagour; and so it seems to have occurred in this line. Chatterton was so ignorant as to read it Afterlagour; and has absolutely disjointed the constituent parts, and taken it for a proper name; the name of a Norman of some consequence. He accordingly forgets the real person spoken of, and addresses this After-la-gour as a person of science-"most skyll'd After-la-gour." He thought it was analogous to Delacoure, Delamere, and other compounded French names. So puerile are the mistakes of the person who is supposed to have been the author of these excellent poems.-Bryant.

Howe manie Alfwolde sent to Heaven or Helle; As leaves from trees shook by derne Autumns hand, [strand. So laie the Normannes slain by Alfwold on the As when a drove of wolves with dreary yelles Assayle some flocke, ne care if shepster ken't, Besprenge destructione oer the woodes and delles; [ment; The shepter swaynes in vayne theyr lees leSo foughte the Brystowe menne; ne one crevent, Ne onne abashed enthoughten for to flee; With fallen Normans all the playne besprent, And lyke theyr leaders every man did slee; In vayne on every syde the arrowes fled; The Brystowe menne styll ragd, for Alfwold was

not dead.

Manie meanwhile by Haroldes arm did falle, And Leofwyne and Gyrthe encreasd the slayne; "Twould take a Nestor's age to synge them all, Or telle how manie Normannes preste the playne;

But of the erles, whom record nete hath slayne,
O Truthe! for good of after-tymes relate
That, thowe they're deade, theyr names may

lyve agayne,

And be in deathe, as they in life were, greate; So after-ages maie theyr actions see, And like to them æternal alwaie stryve to be.

Adhelm, a knyghte, whose holie deathless sire
For ever bended to St. Cuthbert's shyne,
Whose breast for ever burnd with sacred fyre,
And een onn erthe he myghte be calld lyvine;
To Cuthbert's church be dyd his goodes resygne,
And lefte hys son his God's and fortunes
knyghte;

His son the saincte behelde with looke adigne,
Made him in gemot wyse, and great in fyghte;
Saincte Cuthberte dyd him ayde in all hys
deedes,
[bleedes.

His friends he lets to lyve, and all his foemen

He married was to Kenewalchae faire, The fynest dame the Sun or Moon adave; She was the mightie Aderedus beyre, Who was alreadie hastynge to the grave; As the blue Bruton, rysinge from the wave, Like sea-gods seeme in most majestic guise, And rounde aboute the risynge waters lave, And their longe hayre arounde their bodie flies, Such majestie was in her porte displaid, To be excelid bie none but Homer's martial

maid.

White as the chaulkie clyffes of Brittaines isle, Red as the highest colour'd Gallic wine, Gaie as all nature at the mornynge smile, Those hues with pleasaunce on her lippes combine, [skyne,

Her lippes more redde than summer evenynge Or Phoebus rysinge in a frostie morne,

Her breste more white than snow in feeldes that lyene,

Or lillie lambes that never have been shorne, Swellynge like bubbles in a boillynge welle, Or new-braste brooklettes gently whyspringe in the delle.

Browne as the fylberte droppyng from the shelle' Browne as the nappy ale at Hocktyde game,

Majestic as the grove of okes that stood
Before the abbie buylt by Oswald kynge;
Majestic as Hybernies holie woode, [synge;
Where sainctes and soules departed masses
Such awe from her sweete looke forthe issuynge
At once for reveraunce and love did calle;
Sweet as the voice of thraslarks in the spring,
So sweet the wordes that from her lippes did
falle;

None fell in vayne; all shewed some entent; Her wordies did displaie her great entendement.

Tapre as candles layde at Cuthberts shryne, Tapre as elmes that Goodrickes abbie shrove; Tapre as silver chalices for wine,

So tapre was her armes and shape ygrove. As skyllful my nemenne by the stones above Can ken what metalle is ylach'd belowe, So Kennewalcha's face ymade, for love, The lovelie ymage of her soule did shewe; Thus was she outward form'd; the Sun her mind Did guilde, her mortal shape and all her charms refin'd.

What blazours then, what glorie shall he clayme, What doughtie Homere shall hys praises synge, That lefte the bosome of so fayre a dame Uncall'd, unaskt, to serve his lorde the kynge? To his fayre shrine goode subjects ought to bringe

The armes, the helmets, all the spoyles of warre, Throwe everie reaulm the poets blaze the thynge, And travelling merchants spredde bys name to

farre;

Or rowle in ferselie wythe ferse Severnes tyde, Whereer thou art, come and my mynde enleeme Wyth such greete thoughtes as dyd with thee abyde,

Thou sonne, of whom I oft have caught a beeme, Send mee agayne a drybblette of thie lyghte, That I the deeds of Englyshmenne maie wryte.

Harold, who saw the Normannes to advaunce, Seizd a huge byll, and layd hym down hys spere; Soe dyd ech wite laie downe the broched launce, And groves of bylles did glitter in the ayre. Wyth showtes the Normannes did to battel steere;

Campynon famous for his stature highe, Fyrey wythe brasse, benethe a shyrte of lere, In cloudie daie he reechd into the skie; Neere to kyng Harolde dyd he come alonge, And drewe hys steele Morglaien sworde so stronge.

Thryce rounde hys heade hee swung hys anlace wyde,

On whyche the Sunne his visage did agleeme, Then straynynge, as hys membres would dy

vyde,

Hee stroke on Haroldes sheelde in manner breme;
Alonge the fielde it made an horrid cleembe,
Coupeynge kyng Harolds payncted sheeld in
twayne,

Then yn the bloude the fierie swerde dyd steeme,
And then dyd drive ynto the bloudie playne;
So when in ayre the vapours do abounde,
Some thunderbolte tares trees and dryves ynto the
grounde.

Harolde upreer'd hys bylle, and furious sente
A stroke, lyke thondre, at the Normannes syde;
Upon the playne the broken brasse besprente
Dyd ne hys bodie from dethe-doeynge hyde;
He tournyd backe, and dyd not there abyde;
With straught oute sheelde hee ayenwarde did
[divide,

goe, Threwe downe the Normannes, did their rankes To save himselfe lefte them unto the foe; So olyphauntes, in kingdomme of the Suune, When once provok'd doth throwe theyr owne troopes runne.

Harolde, who ken'd hee was his armies staie,
Nedeynge the rede of generaul so wyse,
Byd Alfwoulde to Campynon haste awaie,
As thro the armie ayenwarde he hies,
Swyfte as a feether'd takel Alfwoulde flies,
The steele bylle biushynge oer wyth lukewarm
bloude;

Ten Kenters, ten Bristowans for th' emprize
Hasted wyth Alfwoulde where Campynon stood,
Who aynewarde went, whylste everie Normaune
knyghte

Dyd blush to see their champyon put to flyghte.

As painctyd Bruton, when a wolfyn wylde, When yt is cale and blustrynge wyndes do blowe, Enters hys bordelle, taketh hys yonge chylde, And wyth his bloude bestreynts the lillie snowe, He thoroughe mountayne hie and dale doth goe, Throwe the quyck torrent of the bollen ave, Throwe Severne rollynge oer the sandes belowe He skyms alofe, and blents the beatynge wave, Ne stynts, ne lagges the chace, tylle for hys eyne In peecies hee the morthering theef doth chyne.

So Alfwoulde he dyd to Campynon haste; Hys bloudie bylle awhap'd the Normannes eyne; Hee fled, as wolfes when bie the talbots chac'd, To bloudie byker he dyd ne enclyne. Duke Wyllyam stroke hym on hys brigandyne, And said; Campynon, is it thee I see? Thee? who dydst actes of glorie so bewryen, Now poorlie come to hyde thieselfe bie mee? Awaie! thou dogge, and acte a warriors parte, Or with mie swerde I'll perce thee to the harte.

Betweene erle Alfwoulde and duke Wyllyam's bronde [bee, Campynon thoughte that nete but deathe coulde Seezed a huge swerde Morglaien yn his honde, Mottrynge a praier to the Vyrgyne:

So hunted deere the dryvynge houndes will slee, When theie dyscover they cannot escape; And feerful lambkyns, when theie hunted bee, Theyre ynfante hunters doe theie ofte awhape; Thus stoode Campynon, greete but hertlesse knyghte, [fvghte.

When feere of dethe made hym for deathe to

Alfwoulde began to dyghte hymselfe for fyghte,
Meanewbyle hys menne on everie syde dyd slee,
Whan on hys lyfted sheelde withe alle hys
myghte

Campynon's swerde in burlie-brande dyd dree;
Bewopen Alfwoulde fellen on his knee;

Hys Brystowe menne came in hym for to save; Eftsoons upgotten from the grounde was hee, And dyd agayne the touring Norman brave; Hee graspd hys bylle in syke a drear arraie, Hee seem'd a lyon catchynge at hys preie.

lynge flame;

Eftsoons agayne the thondrynge bill ycame, Peers'd thro hys adventayle and skyrts of lare; A tyde of purple gore came wyth the same, As out hys bowells on the feelde it tare; Campynon felle, as when some cittie-walle Inne dolefulle terrours on its mynours falle.

He felle, and dyd the Norman rankes dy vyde; So when an oke, that shotte ynto the skie, Feeles the broad axes peersynge his broade syde, Slowlie he falls and on the grounde doth lie, Pressynge all downe that is with hym anighe, And stoppynge wearie travellers on the waie; So straught upon the playne the Norman hie

Bled, gron'd and dyed: the Normanne knyghtes

astound

To see the bawsin champyon preste upon the grounde.

As when the hygra of the Severne roars,
And thunders ugsom on the sandes below,

9 As when the mountain oak, or poplar tall, Or pine, fit mast for some great admiral, Groans to the oft-heaved axe with many a

wound,

Then spreads a length of ruin on the ground. Pope's Homer.