To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep;
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep
A vision brought to his entranced sight.
And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep
Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,
With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night.
Anon in view a portal's blazoned arch
Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold,
And forth an host of little warriors march,
Grasping the diamond lance and targe of gold.
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,
And green their helms and green their silk attire;
And here and there, right venerably old,
The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.
With merriment and song and timbrels clear,
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance;
The little warriors doff the targe and spear,
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;
Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance
Rapid along with many-coloured rays
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.
Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave,
He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave
High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue;
Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new,
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries,
More wildly great than ever pencil drew—
Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,
And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.
Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array
When sulphurous clouds rolled on th' autumnal day,
Even then he hastened from the haunt of man,
Along the trembling wilderness to stray,
What time the lightning's fierce career began,
And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.
Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all
In sprightly dance the village youth were joined,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,
From the rude gambol far remote reclined,
Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind.
Ah then all jollity seemed noise and folly
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined!
Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy
When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!
1771.
1766-71.
BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE
OR THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN
The feathered songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne.
Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte 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 enthroned on hyghe,
Charles Bawdin and hys fellowes twaine
To-daie shall surelie die !"
And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to sounde;
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde:
And just before the officers
His 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 :
Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.
"Sweet Florence, why these brinie teeres?
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.
"Tys butt a journie I shalle goe
Untoe the lande of blysse.
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
Receive thys holie kysse."
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke:
"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!
My herte ys welle nyghe broke!
"Ah, sweete Syr Charles, why wylt thou goe
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."
And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Whoe turnèdd toe hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus toe her dydd saie:
"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe.
Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,
And ynne theyre hertes hym love:
"Teache them to runne the nobile race
Thatt I theyre fader runne.
Florence, shou'd dethe thee take-adieu!
Yee officers, leade onne."
Thenne Florence raved as anie madde,
And dydd her tresses tere:
"Oh staie, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!"
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll, tyrèdd oute wythe ravynge loud, Shee fellen onne the flore:
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,
And marched fromm oute the dore. Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete; Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlet 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 ynne homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte;
Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt:
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tuned the strunge bataunt.
Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;
Echone the we dydd bende,
From rescue of kynge Henries friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.
Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde,
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde.
Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe
Of archers stronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marchèd ynne goodlie route.
Seincte Jameses Freers marched next;
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt:
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tuned the strunge bataunt.
Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Easterne princes trickt.
And after them a multitude
Of citizenns dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.
And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
"O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Washe mye soule clean thys daie!"
Att the grete mynsterr wyndowe sat
The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys most welcom fate.
Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare:
"Thou seest mee, Edwarde! traytour vile! Exposed to infamie;
Butt bee assured, disloyall manne,
I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee!
"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou wearest nowe a crowne;
And hast appoynted mee to dye,
By power nott thyne owne.
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