To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, 50 And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. Anon in view a portal's blazoned arch 55 60 65 With merriment and song and timbrels clear, Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, 75 80 Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. When sulphurous clouds rolled on th' autumnal day, 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, From the rude gambol far remote reclined, To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined! When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy! 1771. "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!" ΤΟ And nowe the bell beganne to tolle, And claryonnes to sounde; Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete 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! Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christian soule "Sweet Florence, why these brinie teeres? Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie. "Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, "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, 15 20 25 390 35 40 "Teache them to runne the nobile race Thatt I theyre fader runne. Florence, shou'd dethe thee take-adieu! 50 Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere: "Oh staie, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!" 55 Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 'Tyll, tyrèdd oute wythe ravynge loud, Shee fellen onne the flore: Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte, Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Before hym went the council-menne, 60 65 Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde, Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, 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, 100 And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, "O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, Washe mye soule clean thys daie!" "Thou seest mee, Edwarde! traytour vile! Exposed to infamie; Butt bee assured, disloyall manne, 115 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. 120 |