'Tis thine; the Saints will give me my reward!' He left the pilgrim and his way aborde1. Virgin and holy Saints who sit in gloure2, Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power! ECLOGUE THE FIRST. 3 When England, reeking from her deadly wound, (Mighty they fell,-'twas Honour led the fray,) Then in a dale, by eve's dark surcote grey, Two lonely shepherds did abrodden* fly, (The rustling leaf doth their white hearts affray,) And with the owlet trembled and did cry. First Robert Neatherd his sore bosom stroke, Robert. 'Ah, Ralph! if thus the hours do come along, Nor will our pace swift as our danger go. My life I have, but have escaped so That life itself my senses doth affray. 5 O Ralph! come list, and hear my gloomy tale, Ralph. Say to me nought; I ken thy woe in mine, 6 Oh! I've a tale that Sathanas might tell! The sweet-strung viol1 dinning in the dell,The joyous dancing in the hostel-court,— Eke the high song and every joy,-farewell! Impestering trouble on my head doth come :— Oh! I could wail my kingcup-deckèd leas, My parker's-grange far spreading to the sight, Inured unto the pain, I let no salt tear flow. Here will I still abide till Death appear ; I to lament have greater cause than thee, Oh! I would slay his murderer joyously, Robert. Our woes alike, alike our doom shall be, 7 My son, mine only son, all death-cold is! Here will I stay and end my life with thee,A life like mine a burden is, I wis. 1 'Swote ribible,' sweet violin.-Chatterton. 'Hantend,' accustomed.-Chatterton. 2 Marygold.-Chatterton Soe wille I, fyxed unto thys piace, gre.' -- Chatterton. 5 'Oh! joieous I hys mortherer would slea.'-Chatterton. • Portcullis.-Chatterton. 7. Ystorven,' dead -Chatterton. Even from the cot flown now is happiness : Minsters alone can boast the holy Saint: Now doth our England' wear a bloody dress, And with her champions' gore her visage paint. Peace fled, Disorder shows her face dark-brow'd', And through the air doth fly in garments stained with blood. ECLOGUE THE THIRD. A Man; a Woman; Sir Roger. Wouldst thou ken Nature in her better part? In them you see the naked form of kind. Would it hear phrase of vulgar from the hind, Man. But whither, fair maid, do ye go? I will know whither you go, I will not be answered nay. Woman. To Robin and Nell, all down in the dell, To help them at making of hay. Man. Sir Roger, the parson, hath hired me there; Come, come, let us trip it away : We'll work, and we'll sing, and we'll drink of strong beer, Doeth Englonde.'-Chatterton. 2 Peace fledde, disorder sheweth her dark rode.' ('Rode,' complexion.) -Chatterton. Woman. How hard is my doom to work! Much is my woe! Dame Agnes, who lies in the kirk, With golden borders, strong, untold, What was she more than me, to be so? Man. I ken Sir Roger from afar, I will ask why the lordè's son Sir Roger. The sultry sun doth hie apace his wain ; Methinks the cocks are 'ginning to grow tall. Man. All-a-boon, Sir Priest, all-a-boon! By your priestship, now say unto me, Sir Roger. Cast round thine eyes upon this hayèd lea; It rose, it blew, it flourished and did well, Looking askance upon the neighbour green; Yet with the green disdained its glory fell,- Did not its look, the while it there did stand, Such is the way of life: the lord's rich rent1 Believe the truth, there's none more whole than thee. Thou wouldst eftsoons see truth in what I say. Hast thou not seen a tree upon a hill, Whose boundless branches reach afar to sight? When furious tempests do the heaven fill, It shaketh dire, in dole and much affright; The loverde's ente' (lord's purse).—Chatterton's text and gloss. |