HEATH READINGS IN THE LITERATURE OF ENGLAND

fame. But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in his hand. His spear bent at every step!

the bow, perceive it. Peace to thy soul, in thy cave, chief of the isle of mist!

"The mighty are dispersed at Temora; there is none in Cormac's hall. The king 5 mourns in his youth. He does not behold thy return. The sound of thy shield is ceased: his foes are gathering round. Soft be thy rest in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars! Bragela will not hope for thy return,

are not on the shore: nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers. She sits in the hall of shells. She sees the arms of him

'Carril,' said the chief in secret, 'the strength of Cuthullin fails. My days are with the years that are past. No morning of mine shall arise. They shall seek me at Temora, but I shall not be found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and say, Where is 10 or see thy sails in ocean's foam. Her steps Erin's chief? But my name is renowned! my fame in the song of bards. The youth will say, in secret, O let me die as Cuthullin died! Renown clothed him like a robe. The light of his fame is great. Draw the 15 tears, daughter of car-borne Sorglan! Blest arrow from my side. Lay Cuthullin beneath that oak. Place the shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidst the arms of my fathers!'

'And is the son of Semo fallen?' said 20 Carril with a sigh. 'Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells at Dunscai. Thy spouse is left alone in her youth. The son of thy love is alone! He shall come to Bragela and ask her why she weeps! He 25 shall lift his eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose sword is that? he will say. The soul of his mother is sad. Who is that, like the hart of the desert, in the murmur of his course? His eyes look wildly 30 round in search of his friend. Connal, son of Colgar, where hast thou been, when the mighty fell? Did the seas of Togorma roll around thee? Was the wind of the south in thy sails? The mighty have fallen in battle, 35 and thou wast not there. Let none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody land. Fingal will be sad, and the sons of the desert mourn!'

By the dark-rolling waves of Lego they 40 raised the hero's tomb. Luath, at a distance, lies. The song of bards rose over the dead. 'Blest be thy soul, son of Semo! Thou wert mighty in battle. Thy strength was like the strength of a stream; thy speed like 45 the eagle's wing. Thy path in battle was terrible: the steps of death were behind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo, car-borne chief of Dunscai! Thou hast not

fallen by the sword of the mighty, neither was thy blood on the spear of the brave. The arrow came, like the sting of death in a blast: nor did the feeble hand, which drew

that is no more. Thine eyes are full of

be thy soul in death, O chief of shady Tura!'

1761

Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770)

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE
OR THE DETHE OF SYR
CHARLES BAWDIN

THE featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne:

Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes 5
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

Thou 'rt ryghte,' quod he, 'for, by the Godde
That syttes enthroned on hyghe!
Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die.'

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale

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

Hee leaves thys mortall state.'

Sir Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,
With harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journeyed to the castle-gate,
And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,

Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

'O, goode Syr Charles!' sayd Canterlone, 25
'Badde tydyngs I doe brynge.'

'Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr 'Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, Charles,

The best were synners grete;

Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne, 75
Ynne alle thys mortall state.

'Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne,
"T wylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;
From race to race thye familie

Alle sov'reigns shall endure:

'But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou Beginne thy infante reigne,

Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows Wylle never long remayne.'

'Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile 85 Has scorned my power and mee;

Howe canst thou then for such a manne
Entreate my clemencye?'

'My nobile liege! the trulie brave
Wylle val'rous actions prize;

Respect a brave and nobile mynde,
Although ynne enemies.'

Is ytte for my most welcome doome Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?'

Speke, maister Canynge! Whatte thynge

else

'My nobile liege!' goode Canynge sayde,

'Leave justice to our Godde,

And laye the yronne rule asyde;

Be thyne the olyve rodde.

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'Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;

Whie should I thenne appeare dismayed 175 To leave thys worlde of payne?

'Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,

I shall ne see thye dethe;

Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause
Doe I resign my brethe.

'Oh, fickle people! rewyned londe!
Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.

'Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace,
And godlie Henrie's reigne,

Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies
For those of bloude and peyne?

180

185

'Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, Of parents of grete note;

200

150

My fadre dydd a nobile armes Emblazon onne hys cote:

"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortall lyfe:

'Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite;

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe The wronge cause fromm the ryghte: 160

'Hee taughte mee with a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie poore,

Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie
The hungrie fromme my doore:

'And none can saye butt alle mye lyfe
I have hys wordyes kept;
And summed the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyght before I slept.

'I have a spouse, goe aske of her
Yff I defyled her bedde?

I have a kynge, and none can laie
Black treason onne my hedde.

Farewell vayne world, and alle that's deare, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!

'Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes, 205 As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.'

Quod Canynge, "T ys a goodlie thynge
To bee prepared to die;

And from thys world of peyne and grefe
To Godde ynne heav'n to flie.'

210

And nowe the belle began to tolle,

And claryonnes to sound;

165

170

His lovynge wyfe came ynne,

Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

'Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Ynn quiet lett mee die;

220

'Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe,
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thy necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.'

And nowe the officers came ynne

To brynge Syr Charles awaie,

Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd saie:

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

"Teache them to runne the nobile race
Thatt I theyre fader runne;

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245

250

Florence! shou'd dethe thee take Yee officers leade onne.'

adieu!

Who tuned the strunge bataunt:

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;

And theyre attendynge menne echone, 295
Lyke easterne princes trickt:

And after them, a multitude

Of citizens dydd thronge;

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.

300

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 thy's daie!'

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat The kynge ynne mycle state,

305

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge

260

To hys most welcom fate.

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,

310

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, And thus hys wordes declare:

Before hym went the council-menne, Ynne scarlett robes and golde,

265

"Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Exposed to infamie;

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, Muche glorious to beholde: