Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 15

This is mine end, I may it not astart;[2]

O brother mine, there is no more to say; Lowly beseeching with mine whole heart For to remember specially, I pray, If it befall my little son to dey[3]

That thou mayst after some mind on us have, Suffer us both be buried in one grave.

I hold him strictly 'tween my armes twain, Thou and Nature laid on me this charge; He, guiltless, muste with me suffer pain, And, since thou art at freedom and at large, Let kindness oure love not so discharge, But have a mind, wherever that thou be, Once on a day upon my child and me.

On thee and me dependeth the tres.p.a.ce Touching our guilt and our great offence, But, welaway! most angelic of face Our childe, young in his pure innocence, Shall against right suffer death's violence, Tender of limbs, G.o.d wot, full guilteless The goodly fair, that lieth here speechless.

A mouth he has, but wordes hath he none; Cannot complain, alas! for none outrage: Nor grutcheth[4] not, but lies here all alone Still as a lamb, most meek of his visage.

What heart of steel could do to him damage, Or suffer him die, beholding the mannere And look benign of his twain even clear.'--

Writing her letter, awhapped[5] all in drede, In her right hand her pen began to quake, And a sharp sword to make her hearte bleed, In her left hand her father hath her take, And most her sorrow was for her childe's sake, Upon whose face in her barme[6] sleeping Full many a tear she wept in complaining.

After all this so as she stood and quoke, Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart, Without abode the sharpe sword she took, And rove herselfe even to the heart; Her child fell down, which mighte not astart, Having no help to succour him nor save, But in her blood theself began to bathe.

[1] 'Abraid:' awake.

[2] 'Astart:' escape.

[3] 'Dey:' die.

[4] 'Grutcheth:' murmureth.

[5] 'Awhapped:' confounded.

[6] 'Barme:' lap.

THE LONDON LYCKPENNY.

Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor Would do for me ought, although I should die: Which seeing, I gat me out of the door, Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 'Master, what will you copen[1] or buy?

Fine felt hats? or spectacles to read?

Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.

Then to Westminster gate I presently went, When the sun was at high prime: Cooks to me they took good intent,[2]

And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine; A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread, But, wanting money, I might not be sped.

Then unto London I did me hie, Of all the land it beareth the price; 'Hot peascods!' one began to cry, 'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'[3]

One bade me come near and buy some spice; Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;[4]

But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn, Where much people I saw for to stand; One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, Another he taketh me by the hand, 'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!'

I never was used to such things, indeed; And, wanting money, I might not speed.

Then went I forth by London Stone, Throughout all Canwick Street: Drapers much cloth me offered anon; Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;'

One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,[5]

One bade me buy a hood to cover my head; But, for want of money, I might not be sped.

Then I hied me unto East-Cheap, One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie; Pewter pots they clattered on a heap; There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy; Yea by c.o.c.k! nay by c.o.c.k! some began cry; Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed; But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then into Cornhill anon I yode,[6]

Where was much stolen gear among; I saw where hung mine owne hood, That I had lost among the throng; To buy my own hood I thought it wrong: I knew it well, as I did my creed; But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

The taverner took me by the sleeve, 'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine a.s.say?'

I answered, 'That can not much me grieve, A penny can do no more than it may;'

I drank a pint, and for it did pay; Yet, sore a-hungered from thence I yede,[7]

And, wanting money, I could not speed.

[1] 'Copen:' _koopen_(Flem.) to buy.

[2] 'Took good intent:' took notice; paid attention.

[3] 'In the rise:' on the branch.

[4] 'Beed:' offer.

[5] 'Greet:' cry.

[6] 'Yode:' went.

[7] 'Yede:' went.

HARDING, KAY, &c.

John Harding flourished about the year 1403. He fought at the battle of Shrewsbury on the Percy side. He is the author of a poem ent.i.tled 'The Chronicle of England unto the Reign of King Edward the Fourth, in Verse.' It has no poetic merit, and little interest, except to the antiquary. In the reign of the above king we find the first mention of a Poet Laureate. John Kay was appointed by Edward, when he returned from Italy, Poet Laureate to the king, but has, perhaps fortunately for the world, left behind him no poems. Would that the same had been the case with some of his successors in the office! There is reason to believe, that for nearly two centuries ere this date, there had existed in the court a personage, ent.i.tled the King's Versifier, (versificator,) to whom one hundred shillings a-year was the salary, and that the t.i.tle was, by and by, changed to that of Poet Laureate, _i.e._, Laurelled Poet. It had long been customary in the universities to crown scholars when they graduated with laurel, and Warton thinks that from these the first poet laureates were selected, less for their general genius than for their skill in Latin verse. Certainly the earliest of the Laureate poems, such as those by Baston and Gulielmus, who acted as royal poets to Richard I. and Edward II., and wrote, the one on Richard's Crusade, and the other on Edward's Siege of Stirling Castle, are in Latin. So too are the productions of Andrew Bernard, who was the Poet Laureate successively to Henry VII. and Henry VIII. It was not till after the Reformation had lessened the superst.i.tious veneration for the Latin tongue that the laureates began to write in English. It is almost a pity, we are sometimes disposed to think, that, in reference to such odes as those of Pye, Whitehead, Colley Cibber, and even some of Southey's, the old practice had not continued; since thus, in the first place, we might have had a chance of elegant Latinity, in the absence of poetry and sense; and since, secondly, the deficiencies of the laureate poems would have been disguised, from the general eye at least, under the veil of an unknown tongue. It is curious to notice about this period the uprise of two didactic poets, both writing on alchymy, the chemistry of that day, and neither displaying a spark of genius. These are John Norton and George Ripley, both renowned for learning and knowledge of their beloved occult sciences. Their poems, that by Norton, ent.i.tled 'The Ordinal,' and that by Ripley, ent.i.tled 'The Compound of Alchemie,'

are dry and rugged treatises, done into indifferent verse. One rather fine fancy occurs in the first of these. It is that of an alchymist who projected a bridge of gold over the Thames, near London, crowned with pinnacles of gold, which, being studded with carbuncles, should diffuse a blaze of light in the dark! Alchymy has had other and n.o.bler singers than Ripley and Norton. It has, as Warton remarks, 'enriched the store- house of Arabian romance with many magnificent imageries.' It is the inspiration of two of the n.o.blest romances in this or any language --'St. Leon' and 'Zanoni.' And its idea, transfigured into a transcen- dental form, gave light and life and fire, and the loftiest poetry, to the eloquence of the lamented Samuel Brown, whose tongue, as he talked on his favourite theme, seemed trans.m.u.ted into gold; nay, whose lips, like the touch of Midas, seemed to create the effects of alchymy upon every subject they approached, and upon every heart over which they wielded their sorcery.

We pa.s.s now from this comparatively barren age in the history of English poetry to a cl.u.s.ter of Scottish bards. The first of these is ROBERT HENRYSON. He was schoolmaster at Dunfermline, and died some time before 1508. He is supposed by Lord Hailes to have been preceptor of youth in the Benedictine convent in that place. He is the author of 'Robene and Makyne,' a pastoral ballad of very considerable merit, and of which Campbell says, somewhat too warmly, 'It is the first known pastoral,'

(he means in the Scottish language of course,) 'and one of the best, in a dialect rich with the favours of the pastoral muse.' He wrote also a sequel to Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide' ent.i.tled 'The Testament of Cresseide,' and thirteen Fables, of which copies, in MS., are preserved in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. One of these, 'The Town and Country Mouse,' tells that old story with considerable spirit and humour. 'The Garment of Good Ladies' is an ingenious and beautiful strain, written in that quaint style of allegorising which continued popular as far down as the days of Cowley, and even later.

DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

* * * Their harboury was ta'en Into a spence,[1] where victual was plenty, Both cheese and b.u.t.ter on long shelves right high, With fish and flesh enough, both fresh and salt, And pockis full of groats, both meal and malt.

After, when they disposed were to dine, Withouten grace they wuish[2] and went to meat, On every dish that cookmen can divine, Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit;[3]

A lorde's fare thus can they counterfeit, Except one thing--they drank the water clear Instead of wine, but yet they made good cheer.

With blithe upcast and merry countenance, The elder sister then spier'd[4] at her guest, If that she thought by reason difference Betwixt that chamber and her sairy[5] nest.

'Yea, dame,' quoth she, 'but how long will this last?'

'For evermore, I wait,[6] and longer too;'

'If that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth she.

To eke the cheer, in plenty forth they brought A plate of groatis and a dish of meal, A threif[7] of cakes, I trow she spared them nought, Abundantly about her for to deal.

Furmage full fine she brought instead of jeil, A white candle out of a coffer staw,[8]

Instead of spice, to creish[9] their teeth witha'.

Thus made they merry, till they might nae mair, And, 'Hail, Yule, hail!' they cryit up on high; But after joy oftentimes comes care, And trouble after great prosperity.

Thus as they sat in all their jollity, The spencer came with keyis in his hand, Open'd the door, and them at dinner fand.

They tarried not to wash, as I suppose, But on to go, who might the foremost win: The burgess had a hole, and in she goes, Her sister had no place to hide her in; To see that silly mouse it was great sin, So desolate and wild of all good rede,[10]

For very fear she fell in swoon, near dead.

Then as G.o.d would it fell in happy case, The spencer had no leisure for to bide, Neither to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase, But on he went and cast the door up-wide.

This burgess mouse his pa.s.sage well has spied.

Out of her hole she came and cried on high, 'How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.'

The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground, And for the death she was full dreadand, For to her heart struck many woful stound, As in a fever trembling foot and hand; And when her sister in such plight her fand, For very pity she began to greet, Syne[11] comfort gave, with words as honey sweet.