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The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade; The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground,

August and hoary, o'er the sloping dale,

The Gothic abbey rears its sculptur'd tow'rs; Dull thro' the roofs resounds the whistling gale, Dark solitude among the pillars low'rs.

Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves,

And solemu shade a chapel's sad remains, Where yon scath'd poplar through the windows waves,

And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains.
There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind,
Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where,
Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclin'd,
Pores on the graves, and sighs a broken pray'r.
High o'er the pines, that with their dark'ningshade
Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears
Its crumbling turrets; still its tow'ry head

A warlike mien, a sullen grandeur wears.
So, 'midst the snow of age, a boastful air

Still on the war-worn vet'ran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare,.... Tho' trembling o'er the feeblecrutch he bends. Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flow'rscreep, Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led;

Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap,

Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread. "Twas here our sires, exulting from the fight," Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the lea, Eyeing their rescued fields with proud delight! Now lost to them! and, ah! how chang'd to me!

This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze,

The dear idea of my Pollio bring;
So shone the moon thro' these soft-nodding trees,
When here we wander'd in the eves of spring.
When April's smiles the flow'ry lawn adorn,

And modest cowslips deck the streamlet's side;
When fragrant orchards to the roseate morn
Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colors
Jyed:

So fair a blossom gentle Pollio wore,

These were the emblems of his healthful mind; To him the letter'd page display'd its lore,

To him bright Fancy all her wealth resign'd; Him with her purest flames the Muse endow'd, Flames never to th' illiberal thought allied:" The sacred sisters led where Virtue glow'd

In all her charms; he saw, he felt, and died.

O partner of my infant griefs and joys!

Bigwith the scenes now past, myhearto'erflows; Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rise,

And dwells luxurious on her melting woes. Oft with the rising sun, when life was new, Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee; Oft by the moon have brush'd the evening dew, When all was fearless innocence and glee.

The sainted well, where you bleak hill declines,
Has oft been conscious of those happy hours;
But now the hill, the river crown'd, with pines,
And sainted well have lost their cheering
pow'rs;

For thou art gone. My guide, my friend! oh

where,

My tend'rest wish, my heart to thee was bare;

Where hast thou fled, and left me here behind?

Oh now cut off each passage to my mind! How dreary is the gulph! how dark, how void, The trackless shores that never were repass'd! Dread separation! on the depth untried,

Hope faiters, and the soul recoils aghast! Wide round the spacious heavens I cast my eyes: And shall these stars glow with immortal fire? Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies? And could thy bright, thy living soul expire? Far be the thought! The pleasures most sublime, The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear, The tow'ring wish that scorns the bounds of time,

Chill'd in this vale of death, bnt languish here.
So plant the vine in Norway's wintry land,
The languid stranger feebly buds, and dies:
Yet there's a clime where Virtue shall expand
With godlike strength beneath her native
skies!

The lonely shepherd on the mountain's side
With patience waits the rosy-op'ning day;
The mariner at midnight's darksome tide
With cheerful hope expects the morning ray :
Thus I, on life's storm-beaten ocean toss'd,

In mental vision view the happy shore,
Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast,.
Where fate and death divide the friends no
more !

Oh that some kind, some pitying kindred shade,

Who now perhaps frequents this solemn grove, Would tell the awful secrets of the dead,

And from my eyes the mortal film remove! Vain is the wish-yet surely not in vain Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles at pain,

And wings his spirit with sublime desire!
To fan this spark of heaven, this ray divine,

Still, O my soul! still be aby dear employ
Still thus to wander thro' the shades be thine,
And well thy breast with visionary joy!
So to the dark-brow'd wood, or sacred mount,
In antient days, the holy seers retir'd;
And, led in vision, drank at Siloe's fount,
While rising ecstasies their bosoms fir'd.
Restor'd creation bright before them rose,

The burning deserts smil'd as Eden's plains:
One friendly shade the wolf and lambkin chose;
The flow ry mountainsung, Messiah reigns!"

Tho'

Tho' fainter raptures my cold breast inspire,
Yet let me oft frequent this solemn scene;
Oft to the abbey's shatter'd walls retire, [tween.
What time the moonshine dimly gleams be-
There, where the cross in hoary ruin nods,
Andweeping yews o'ershade the letter'd stones,
While midnight silence wraps these drear abodes,
And sooths me wandering o'er my kindred
bones.

Let kindled Fancy view the glorious morn,
When from the bursting graves the just shall
All Nature smiling; and, by angels borne, [rise,
Messiah's cross far blazing o'er the skies!

$85. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET. MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sous, for valor long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground: Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lic, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees, afar, His all become the prey of war: Béthinks him of his babe and wife; Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime, Thro' the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke : What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancor fell. The rural pipe and merry lay, No more shall cheer the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight

;

Beguile the dreary winter night: No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woc; While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, -Accurs'd to ages yet unborn! The sons against their fathers stood; The parent shed his children's blood. Yet when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's soul was not appeas'd: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murd'ring steel! The pious mother doom'd to death, Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath; The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend;

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Whether of Venus or Aurora born, Yet Goddess sure of heavenly birth, Visit benign a son of Grief forlorn : Thy glitt'ring colors gay Around him, Mirth, display; And o'er his raptur'd sense Diffuse thy living influence :

glow;

So shall each hill, in purer green array'd, And flower-adorn'd in new-born beauty [the shade, The grove shall smooth the horrors of And streams in murmurs shall forget to flow. Shine, Goddess, shine with unremitted ray, [day. And gild (a second sun) with brighter beam our Labor with thee forgets his pain, And aged Poverty can smile with thee; If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain, And weak th' uplifted arin of tyranny. The morning opes on high His universal eye;

And on the world doth pour His glories in a golden show'r.. Lo!Darknesstrembling 'fore thehostileray, Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn: The brood obscene, that own her gloomy

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light,

[night.

Quick as the lightning's flash glide to sepulchral
But whence the gladd'ning beam
That pours his purple stream

O'er the long prospect wide?
"Tis mirth. I see her sit
In majesty of light,

With Laughter at her side.
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air;
And
young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltless strikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affliction's pow'r,
Fear not now wild Passion's rage;
Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour,
Save the tardy hand of Age.
Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet's pray'r:
No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the

troubled air.

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87. Ode to Leven Water. SMOLLET.
ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood,
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood:
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, inonarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eef 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, so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen;
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail;
And shepherds, piping in the dale;
And antient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.

$88. Songe to Ella, Lorde of the Castel of Bry-
stowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON,
under the name of RowLEY.

OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,
Ella, the darlynge of futurity,
Lett thy's mie songe bolde as the courage be,
As everlastynge to posteritye.

Whanne Dacya's sonnes, whose hayres of bloude-
redde hue
[ing due,
Lyche kynge-cuppes brastynge wythe the morn-
Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie,
Upponne the lethale daie,

Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore;
Than dyddst thou furiouse stande,
And bie thie valyante hande
Beesprengedd all the mees wythe gore,

Drawn bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of helle
Thousands of Dacyanns went;
Brystowannes, menne of myghte,
Ydar'd the bloudie fighte,
And actedd deeds full quent.

Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att reste)
Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth beste,
Whetherr upponne the bloude-cmbrewedd
Or whate thou kennst from farre [pleyne,
The dysmall crye of warre,

Or seest somme mountayiie made of corse of
sleyne;

Orr seest the hatchedd stede,
Ypraunceynge o'er the mede,

And neighe tobe amenged the poynctedd speeres,
Orr ynne blacke armoure staulke arounde
Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde,
And glowe ardurous onn the Castle steeres;
Or fierye round the mynsterr glare;
Let Brystowe stylle be made thie care;
Guardeyttfremmefoemeuneandconsumyugefyre;
Lyche Avones streme ensyrke ytte rounde,
Ne lette a flame enharnie the grounde,
Tyllynne one flame all the whole worlde expyre.

$89. Bristowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr
Charles Baudin.

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

The commynge of the morne;

Kynge Edwarde saw the rudie streakes
Of lyght eclypse the greie;

And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

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

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

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His Knyghtes dydd onne hynin 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.

64

"O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone,
Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."
Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave SyrCharles,
Whatte says thie traytour kynge?"

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"I greeve to telle: Before yonne sonne
"Does fromme the welkinne flye,
"Hee hath uponne hys honnor sworne
"Thatt thou shalt surelie die."

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

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

"Thanne lyve hys slave, 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 reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate."

Thenne

Theune Maister Canynge saughte the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee; "I'm come," quoth hee," unto your grace "To move your clemencye."

Thenne quod the kynge," Your tale speke out,
"You have been much oure friende;
"Whatever youre requeste may bee,
"We wylle to ytte attende,'
"My nobile liege! all my request
"Ys for a nobile knyghte,

"Who, tho' may hap he has done wronge,
"He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte:
"Hee has a spouse and children twaine,
"Alle rewyn'd are for aie;
"Yff thatt you are resolv'd to lett
"Charles Bawdin die to daic."

"Speke nott of such a traytour vile,"
The kynge ynne fury sayde;
"Before the ev'ning starre doth sheene,
"Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:
"Justice does loudlie for hym calle
"And hee shall have hys meede;

"We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatt bootes ytt howe or whenne? "Dethe y's the sure, the certaine fate

"Of all wee mortall menne, "Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul "Runs overr att thyne eye; "Is ytte for my most welcome doome "Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" Quod godlie Carynge, "I do weepe, "Thatt thou soe soone must dye, "And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe "Tis thys thatt wettes myne eye. "Thenne drie the teares thatt out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge; "Dethe I despise, and alle the pow'r "Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

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"Before I sawe thy lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mee;

"Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else" Shall mortal manne repine or grudge

"Atte present doe you neede?"

My nobile liege!" goode Canynge sayde, "Leave justice to our Godde,

"And laye the yronne rule asyde,

"Be thyne the olyve rodde.

"Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,

"The best were synners grete; "Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne. "Ynne alle thys mortall state, "Let mercie rule thyne infante reigne, ""Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure ; "From race to race thy familie "Alle sov'reigns shall endure ; "But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou "Beginne thy infante reigne,

"Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows Wyll never lonng remayne."

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"Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile

"Has scorn'd my pow'r and mee; "Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne "Intreate my clemencye?" "My noble lege! the truly brave "Wylle val'rous actions prize,

"Respect a brave and nobile mynde,

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Altho' ynne enemies."

"Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heav'n "That dydd mee beinge gyve, "I will nott taste a bitt of breade "Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. "By Marie, and all Seinctes ynne heav'n, Thys sunne shall be hys laste." Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, And from the presence paste, With herte brimm-fulle of gnawynge grief, Hee to Sir Charles dydd goe, And satte hymm down uponne a stoole, And teares beganne to flowe.

"What Godde ordeynes to bee?

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, "Whan thousands dy'd arounde;

"Whan smokynge streams of crimson bloode "Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde!

"Howe dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte, "That cutte the airie waie,

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And none can saye, butt all mye lyfe "I have hys wordyes kept; "And summ'd the actyonns of the daie "Eche nyghte before I slept. "I have a spouse, goe aske of her "Yff I defyl'd her bedde? "I have a kynge, and none can laie "Blacke treason onne my hedde. "Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, “Fronm fleshe I dydd refrayne; "Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd "To leave thys worlde of payne? "Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce, "I shafle ne see thye dethe; "Moste willynglie in thy just cause "Do I resign my brethe.

"Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe! "Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; "While Richard's sonnes 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 casie daies "For those of bloude and peyne? "Whatte tho' I onne a sledde 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 shall rotte ynne ayre, * And ne ryche monument of brasse "Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; "Yet ynne the holie booke above,

66

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Whyche tyme can't eat awai, "There wythe the servants 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 sonnes and loving wyfe! "Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,

"As e'er the month of Maie,
"Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
"Wyth my dere wyfe to staie."
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 sounde;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A-prauncyng onne the grounde;
And juste before the officers,
Hys lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
"Ynne quiet lett mee die;

" Praig Godde, that every Christian soule
"Maye looke onne dethe as I

Sweet Florence! why these brinie tears; "Theye washe my soule awale, "And almost make mee wishe for lyfe, Wyth thee, sweete danie, to stale. "Tys but a journie I shalle goe

46

44

Untoe the lande of blysse;

"Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
"Receive thys holie kysse."

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her sale,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

My herte ys welle nyghe broke: "Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou got, Wythoute thye lovyinge wyfe!

"The cruelle axe that cuttes thye necke,
"Ytt eke shall ende mye lyfe.'

And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Who turnedd toe hys lorynge wyfe,
And thus toe her dydd safe:

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;
"Truste thou yune Godde above,
"And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,
"Ánd ynne theyre hertes hym love:

"Teache them to runne the nobile race

"Thatt I theyre fader runne:

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

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

Oh! staie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe!"
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare;
"Till tyredd oute wyth ravynge loude,
Shee fellen onne the flore;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Lookes, thatt enshoone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before him went the council-menue,
Ynne scarlette robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde :
The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
Appeared to the syghte,

Alle cladd ynn homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
Yun diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
Most sweetlie theye dydd chaunt ;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge 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 on a clothe-layde sledde,
By two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes upoane theyre hedde:

Behynde

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