'Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,

That cutte the airie waie,

Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 135
And close myne eyes for aie?

'And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?
Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,
Bee alle the manne displayed.

'Ah! goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende,
And guarde thee and thye sonne,
Yff 't is hys wylle; but yff 't is nott,
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

140

'My honest friende, my faulte has beene 145 To serve Godde and mye prynce;

And thatt I no tyme-server am,

'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?

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185

My dethe wylle soone convynce.

'Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,

200

Of parents of grete note;

150

My fadre dydd a nobile armes Emblazon onne hys cote:

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

'I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone Where soone I hope to goe;.

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

155

Where wee for ever shall bee blest,
From oute the reech of woe.

'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 165 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.

170

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

And nowe the belle began to tolle,

And claryonnes to sound;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete 215 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,
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;

240

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;

245

250

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 tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,
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 full brave and swete;
Lookes thatt enshone ne more concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.

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285

290

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles

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:

To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,

25

Along the lofty-windowed hall, The storied tapestry was hung: With minstrelsy the rafters rung

15

Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre thanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre thanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,

Alle under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie lyghte youre fyres,
Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne,

60

Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)

To crown the banquet's solemn close, Themes of British glory chose;

And to the strings of various chime Attempered thus the fabling rhyme.

30

'O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared, High the screaming sea-mew soared; On Tintagell's topmost tower Darksome fell the sleety shower; Round the rough castle shrilly sung The whirling blast, and wildly flung On each tall rampart's thundering side The surges of the tumbling tide:

When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks

35

On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks: 40 By Mordred's faithless guile decreed

Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed!

Yet in vain a paynim foe

Armed with fate the mighty blow;

For when he fell, an elfin queen,
All in secret, and unseen,

Her mantle of ambrosial blue;

45

55

O'er the fainting hero threw

5

And bade her spirits bear him far,
In Merlin's agate-axled car,
To her green isle's enamelled steep,
Far in the navel of the deep.
O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
From flowers that in Arabia grew:
On a rich enchanted bed
She pillowed his majestic head;
O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
Thrice she waved an opiate wand;
And to soft music's airy sound,
Her magic curtains closed around.
There, renewed the vital spring,
Again he reigns a mighty king;
And many a fair and fragrant clime,
Blooming in immortal prime,

50

55

60

10

155

160

Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan:
Thy Norman pike-men win their way
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay:
And from the steeps of rough Kildare
Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare:
So may thy bow's unerring yew
Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrew.'
Amid the pealing symphony
The spiced goblets mantled high;
With passions new the song impressed
The listening king's impatient breast:
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes;
He scorns awhile his bold emprise;
E'en now he seems, with eager pace,
The consecrated floor to trace,
And ope, from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wondrous tomb:
E'en now he burns in thought to rear,
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear, 170
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings,
To poise the monarch's massy blade,

165

Of magic-tempered metal made;
And drag to day the dinted shield
That felt the storm of Camlan's field.
O'er the sepulchre profound

175

120

E'en now, with arching sculpture crowned, He plans the chauntry's choral shrine, The daily dirge, and rites divine.

180

1777

Before the altar's solemn bound.

Around no dusky banners wave,

125

No mouldering trophies mark the grave:

Away the ruthless Dane has torn

Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn;

And long, o'er the neglected stone,

SONNETS

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON

DEEM not, devoid of elegance, the sage, By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled, Of painful pedantry the poring child;