No mo the amblynge palfrie and the horne Shall from the leffel 16 rouze the foxe awaie; 25 I'll feke the foreste alle the lyve-longe daie ; Alle nete amenge the gravde chirche" glebe

wyll goe,

And to the passante spryghtes lecture' mie taleofwoe.

[ JUGA.] Whan mokie "' cloudes do hange upon the leme Of leden20 moon, ynn fylver mantels dyghte; 30 The tryppeynge

faeries weve the golden dreme Of selyness ?", whyche flyethe with the nyghte; Thenne (butte the feynctes forbydde !) gif to a

spryghte Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'll holde dyr

traughte Hys bledeynge clai-colde corse, and die eche daie yn thoughte.



Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can

fhewe! Thou limed aa ryver, on thie linche 23 mai bleede Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thic

waterres flowe,

16 in a confined sense, a bush or hedge, though sometimco used as a forest, 17 church-yard.

18 relate. 19 black. 26 decreasing 25 happiness.

glasly. 23 bank.

And Redborne streeme be Rudborne Atresme

indeede! Haíte, gentle Juga, trippe ytte oere the meade,

To knowe, or wheder wee multe waile agayne, Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the


Soe faicing, lyke twa levyn-blasted trecs,
Or twain of cloudes that holdeth ftormie raine;
Theie moved gentle o’ere the dewie mees24, 45
To where seyacte Albons holie shrynes remayne.
There dyd cheye finde that bothe their knyghtes

were lleyne;
Distraughte 25 theie wandered to fivollen Rud-

borne's fyde, Yelled theyre leathalle knelle, fonke in the waves,

and dyde.

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H thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Ælla, the darlynge of futurity,

24 meads.' 25 distracted. This little gloffary is pecudiarly Chatierions own, many of the words it explains being is winted by him if:

Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be,

As everlatynge to pofteritye.

Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whose hayres of blouche redde hue

5 Lyche kynge-cuppes brastynge wythe the mor

ning due,
Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie,

Upponne the lethale daie,
Sfredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore;

Than dyddit thou furiouse stande,

And bie thie valyante hande Beesprengedd all the mees wythe gore.


Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of helle
Thousandes of Dacyanns went ;
Brystowannes, menne of myghte,
Y dar'd the bloudie fyghte,
And actedd deeds full quent.


Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att reste)

Thye spryte to haunte delyghteth beile, Whetherr upponne the bloude-embrewedd pleyne,

Orr whare thou kennst fromm farre

The dysmall crye of warre, Orr seest somme mountayne made of corse of fegne;


Orr fecit the hatchedd stede,
Y praunceynge o'er the mede,

And neighe to be amenged the poynctedd speeres ; Orr ynne

blacke armoure staulke arounde Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde, And glowe ardurous on the castle steeres ; 30

Orr fierye round the mynsterr glare ;

Lette Brystowe stylle be made thie care; Guarde ytt fromme foemenne and consumyng fyre ;

Lyche Avones ftreme enfyrke ytte rounde,
Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde,

35 Tylle ynne one flame all the whole worlde






The featherd songster chaunticleer

Han wounde hys bugle horne, And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne :

* This poem seems to bave been occafioned by fome account she author bad met with of the death of fir Baldwin Fulford of Fulford in the county of Devon, a zealous partizan of the bouse of Lancaster, who was beheaded at Bristol in 1461, the first year of king Edward IV. William Canyng being eben mayor, and one of the commissioners at bis trial.


Kynge Edwarde fawe the reddie Atreakes

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 enthron’d on hyghe ! “ Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,

« To-daie shall surelie die.”

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite ; “ Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie

• Hee leaves thys mortall state.”

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Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,

Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,

And to fyr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hec came, hys children twaine,

And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,

For goode fyr Charleses lyfe.

“ O good fyr Charles !” fayd Canterlone,

“ Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."

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