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WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON-HOUSE.

II.

ON BATHING.

TO MR. GRAY.

Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train : Studious to trace thy wond'rous origine,
Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn, We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.
Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn,
Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain:

V.
Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn,
Nor views invite, since he far distant strays,
With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and morn,

From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art

Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs, From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays;

Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,

And breathing forms from the rude marble start, That still they can recal those happier days.

How to life's humbler scene can I depart?
My breast all glowing from those gorgeous tow'rs,
In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours !

Vain the complaint: for fancy can impart
When late the trees were stript by winter pale,

(To fate superior, and to fortune's doom) Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green,

Whate'er adorns the stately-storied hall: Or like the forest's silver-quiver'd queen,

She, mid the dungeon's solitary gloom, On airy uplands met the piercing gale;

Can dress the graces in their Attic pall; And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale,

Bid the green landskip's vernal beauty bloom; Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen.

And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall. But since, gay-thron’d in fiery chariot sheen,

VI.
Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale;
She to the cave retires, high-arch'd beneath
The fount that laves proud Isis' towery brim :

Not that her blooms are mark'd with beauty's hue, And now, all glad the temperate air to breathe,

My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings; While cooling drops distil from arches dim,

Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings! Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath,

While slowly-pacing through the churchyard dew, She sits amid the choir of naiads trim.'

At curfew-time, beneath the dark-green yew,

Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings; III.

Or, borne sublime on inspiration's wings,
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE's

Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clue
Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd:

Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay?
Deem not, devoid of elegance, the sage,

No, bard divine! For many a care beguil'd By fancy's genuine feelings unbeguilid,

By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, Of painful pedantry the poring child;

For many a raptur'd thought, and vision wild, Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, To thee this strain of gratitude I pay. Now sunk by time, and Henry's fiercer rage. Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smil'd

VII. On his lone hours ? Ingenuous views engage While summer-suns o'er the gay prospect play'd, His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styl’d,

Through Surry's verdant scenes, where Epsom Intent. While cloisterod piety displays

spreads Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores

Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads, New manners, and the pomp of elder days,

And Hascombe's hill in towering groves array'd Whence culls the pensive bard his pictur'd stores.

Rear’d its romantic steep, with mind serene Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways

I journey'd blithe. Full pensive I return'd; Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers.

For now my breast with hopeless passion burn’d.

Wet with hoar mists appear’d the gaudy scene, IV.

Which late in careless indolence I past;

And Autumn all around those hues had cast, Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle!

Where past delight my recent grief might trace. Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore

Sad change, that nature a congenial gloom To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,

Should wear, when most, my cheerless inood to chase, Huge frame of giant-lands, the mighty pile,

I wish'd her green attire and wonted bloom! T' entomb his Britains slain by Hengist's guile:

VIII. Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,

ON KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE AT WINCHESTER. Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, Where Venta's Norman castle still appears, To victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,

Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss, Rear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd round, And scatter'd Ainty fragments clad in moss, Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line;

On yonder steep in naked state appears ; Or here those kings in solemn state were crown'd: High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years,

MONASTICON.

WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE.

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TO THE RIVER LODON.

Old Arthur's board: on the capacious round

“ These fellowships are pretty things, Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd,

We live indeed like petty kings: In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.

But who can bear to waste his whole age Though join’d by magic skill with many a rhyme,

Amid the dullness of a college, The Druid frame unhonour'd falls a prey

Debarr'd the common joys of life, To the slow vengeance of the wizard time,

And that prime bliss-a loving wise ! And fade the British characters away ;

O! what's a table richly spread Yet Spenser's page, that chaunts in verse sublime

Without a woman at its head! Those chiefs, shall live unconscious of decay.

Would some snug benefice but fall,

Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all!
IX.

To officers I'd bid adieu,
Of Dean, Vice Pres.-of Bursar too;

Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,

Come, tithes, and house, and fruitful fields!" Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd, Too fond of freedom and of ease And thought my way was all through fairy ground, A patron's vanity to please, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun :

Long time he watches, and by stealth, Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun ! Each frail incumbent's doubtful health ; While pensive memory traces back the round,

At length--and in his fortieth year, Which fills the varied interval between ;

A living drops--two hundred clear ! Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. With breast elate beyond expression, Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure He hurries down to take possession, No more return, to cheer my evening road!

With rapture views the sweet retreatYet still one joy remains, that not obscure,

“ What a convenient house! how neat! Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd,

For fuel here's sufficient wood:
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; Pray God the cellars may be good!
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd.

The garden—that must be new plann'de
Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand?

O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. 1746. The flow'ry shrub of thousand dyes:-
When now mature in classic knowledge,

Yon wall, that feels the southern ray, The joyful youth is sent to college,

Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay: His father comes, a vicar plain,

While thick beneath its aspect warm At Oxford bred-in Anna's reign,

O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swara, And thus, in form of humble suitor,

From which, ere long, of golden gleam Bowing accosts a reverend tutor.

Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream: “ Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,

This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy, And this my eldest son of vine ;

We'll alter to a modern privy: My wife's ambition and my own

Up yon green slope, of hazels trim, Was that this child should wear a gown;

An avenue so cool and dim, I'll warrant that his good behaviour

Shall to an arbour, at the end, Will justify your future favour;

In spite of gout, entice a friend. And for his parts, to tell the truth,

My predecessor lov'd devotionMy son's a very forward youth ;

But of a garden had no notion.” Has Horace all by heart--you'd wonder

Continuing this fantastic farce on, And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.

He now commences country parson. If you'd examine—and admit him,

To make his character entire, A scholarship would nicely fit him:

He weds-a cousin of the 'squire; That he succeeds 'tis ten to one;

Not over weighty in the purse, Your vote and interest, Sir!"_ 'Tis done.

But many doctors have done worse: Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,

And though she boasts no charms divine, Are with a scholarship completed:

Yet she can carve and make birch wine. A scholarship but half maintains,

Thus tixt, content he taps his barrel, And college rules are heavy chains:

Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel; In garret dark he smokes and puns,

Finds his church-wardens have discerning A prey to discipline and duns;

Both in good liquor and good learning; And now intent on new designs,

With tithes his barns replete he sees, Sighs for a fellowship-and fines.

And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;

Studies to find out latent dues,
When nine full tedious winters past,
That utmost wish is crown'd at last :

And regulates the state of pews;
But the rich prize no sooner got,

Rides a sleek mare with purple housing, Again he quarrels with his lot:

To share the monthly club's carousing;

2. Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,

When calm around the common room And—but on Sundays—hears no bells;

I puff’d my daily pipe's perfume ! Ea Sends presents of his choicest fruit,

Rode for a stomach, and inspected, And prunes himself each sapless shoot;

At annual botulings, corks selected : bisan Plants cauliflow'rs, and boasts to rear

And din'd untax’d, untroubled, under En. The earliest melons of the year;

The portrait of our pious founder! Thinks alteration charming work is,

When impositions were supply'd Keeps bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies;

To light my pipe-or soothe my prideBeste Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench,

No cares were then for forward peas, And stores the pond with carp and tench.

A yearly-longing wife to please;
But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast

My thoughts no christ’ning dinners crost, Bistro By cares domestic is opprest;

No children cry'd for butter'd toast; And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,

And ev'ry night I went to bed, Threaten inevitable ruin:

Without a modus in my head!” do For children fresh expenses yet,

Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart! And Dicky now for school is fit.

Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art; “ Why did I sell my college life

A dupe to follies yet untry'd, (He cries) for benefice and wife?

And sick of pleasures scarce enjoy'd! Return, ye days! when endless pleasure

Each prize possess’d, thy transport ceases, I found in reading, or in leisure !

And in pursuit alone it pleases.

G

0

“ Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n

“ Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,

Of parents of grete note; I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

My fadre dydd a nobile armes Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

Emblazon onne hys cote: “ By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,

“ I make ne doubte butt bee ys gone, Thys sunne shall be hys laste.”

Where soone I hope to goe; Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,

Where wee for ever shall bee blest, And from the presence paste.

From oute the reech of woe. Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,

“ Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

Wyth pitie to unite; And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole,

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe And teares beganne to flowe.

The wronge cause from the ryghte: “ Wee all must die," quod brave Sir Charles;

“ Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande “ Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;

To feede the hungrie poore, Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie Of all wee mortall menne.

The hungrie fromm my doore: “ Say why, my friende, thie honest soul

“ And none can saye but alle mye lyse Runns over att thyne eye;

I have hys wordyes kept; Is ytte for my most welcome doome

And summ’d the actyonns of the daie Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"

Eche nyghte before I slept. Quod godlie Canynge,“ I doe weepe,

“ I have a spouse, goe aske of her Thatt thou so soone must dye,

Yff I defyld her bedde? And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyse;

I have a kynge, and none can laie 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.”

Black treason onne my hedde. " Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye

“ Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, From godlie fountaines sprynge;

Fromm tleshe I dydd refrayne ; Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

To leave thys worlde of payne ? “ Whan through the tyrant's welcom means “ Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce I shall resigne my lyfe,

I shall ne see thye dethe; The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde

Most willynglie yone thye just cause For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

Doe I resign my brethe. “ Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

“ Oh, fickle people ! rewyn'd londe! Thys was appointed mee;

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge

Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, What Godde ordeynes to bee?

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. “ Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,

“ Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, Whan thousands dy'd arounde;

And godlie Henrie's reigne, Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde:

For those of bloude and peyne? “ Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,

“ Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, Thatt cutte the airie waie,

And mangled by a hynde, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,

I doe defye the traytour's pow'r, And close myne eyes for aie?

Hee can ne harm my mynde; And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,

though, uphoisted onne a pole, Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?

Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere;

And ne ryche monument of brasse Bee alle the manne display'd.

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; “ Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende,

“ Yett ynne the holie book above, And guarde thee and thye sonne,

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, Yff’tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,

There wythe the sarvants of the Lord Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

Mye name shall lyve for aie. 6 My honest friende, my faulte has beene

“ Thenne welcome detbe! for lyfe eterne To serve Godde and mye prynce;

I leave thys mortall lyfe: And thatt I no tyme-server am,

Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare, My dethe wylle soone convynce.

Mye sonnes and lovyoge wyfe!

6 Wh

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** Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.”

Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Quod Canynge, “ 'Tys a goodlie thynge

Before hym went the council-menne,
To bee prepar'd to die;

Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.”

Muche glorious to beholde: - And nowe the belle began to tolle,

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
And claryonnes to sound;

Appeared to the syghte,
E. Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
And just before the officers

Yone diffraunt partes a godlie psaume
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,

Moste sweetlie theye dyd chaunt;
Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe,

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt. • Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Yon quiet lett mee die;

Echone the bowe dydd bende,
Praie Godde that ev'ry Christian soule

From rescue of Kynge Henries friends
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

Syr Charles forr to defend.
Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers ?

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
Theye washe my soule awaie,

Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe

Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe Untoe the lande of blysse;

Of archers stronge and stoute,
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,

Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Receive thys holie kysse.”

Marched ynne goodlie route:
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt: * Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,

And theyre attendyng mennc cchone,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.”

Lyke easterne princes trick't:
And nowe the officers came ynne

And after them a multitude
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,

Of citizenns dydd thronge;
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, And thus to her dydd saie:

As hee dydd passe alonge. “ I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Truste thou ynne Godde above,

Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

“ O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

Washe mye soule clean thys daie!" “ Teache them to runne the nobile race

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat
Thatt I theyre fader runne

The kynge ynne myckle state,
Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu!

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
Yee officers leade onne."

To hys most welcom fate.
Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, And dydd her tresses tere;

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte beare, - Oh staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!”— The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

And thus hys wordes declare: 'T yll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,

“ Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Shee fellen onne the flore;

Expos’d to infamie;
St Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

Butt bee assur’d, disloyall manne!
And march'd fromm oute the dore.

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

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