'Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte, That cutte the airie waie, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 135 'And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, 'Ah! goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, 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, 'Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce, I shall ne see thye dethe; Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause 'Oh, fickle people! rewyned londe! 'Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace, Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies 180 185 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, 'Hee taughte mee justice and the laws And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe The wronge cause fromm the ryghte: 160 'Hee taughte mee with a prudent hande Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie "And none can saye butt alle mye lyfe 165 I have hys wordyes kept; And summed the actyonns of the daie 'I have a spouse, goe aske of her 170 And from thys world of peyne and grefe 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, 'Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, 220 'Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe, And nowe the officers came ynne To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, 'I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; "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! Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, 'Oh, staie, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!' Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. "Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude, 255 285 290 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; Gon to hys death-bedde, Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys death-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres 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, Her mantle of ambrosial blue; 45 55 O'er the fainting hero threw 5 And bade her spirits bear him far, 50 55 60 10 155 160 Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan: 165 Of magic-tempered metal made; 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; |