The Rowley Poems Part 29

Lyche a talle rocke yatte ryseth heaven-were, 760 Lyche a yonge wolfynne brondeous & strynge, Soe dydde he goe, & myghtie warriours hedde; Wythe gore-depycted wynges masterie arounde hym fledde.

The battelle jyned; swerdes uponne swerdes dyd rynge; aella was chased, as lyonns madded bee; 765 Lyche fallynge starres, he dydde the javlynn flynge; Hys mightie anlace mightie menne dyd slea; Where he dydde comme, the flemed[97] foe dydde flee, Or felle benethe hys honde, as fallynge rayne, Wythe syke a fhuyrie he dydde onn 'hemm dree, 770 Hylles of yer bowkes dyd ryse opponne the playne; aella, thou arte--botte staie, mie tynge; saie nee; Howe greate I hymme maye make, stylle greater hee wylle bee.

Nor dydde hys souldyerres see hys actes yn vayne.

Heere a stoute Dane uponne hys compheere felle; 775 Heere lorde & hyndlette sonke uponne the playne; Heere sonne & fadre trembled ynto h.e.l.le.

Chief Magnus sought hys waie, &, shame to telle!

Hee soughte hys waie for flyghte; botte aella's speere Uponne the flyynge Dacyannes schoulder felle. 780 Quyte throwe hys boddie, & hys harte ytte tare, He groned, & sonke uponne the gorie greene, And wythe hys corse encreased the pyles of Dacyannes sleene.

Spente wythe the fyghte, the Danyshe champyons stonde, Lyche bulles, whose strengthe & wondrous myghte ys fledde; 785 aella, a javelynne grypped yn eyther honde, Flyes to the thronge, & doomes two Dacyannes deadde.

After hys acte, the armie all yspedde; Fromm everich on unmyssynge javlynnes flewe; Theie straughte yer doughtie swerdes; the foemenn bledde; 790 Fulle three of foure of myghtie Danes dheie slewe; The Danes, wythe terroure rulynge att their head, Threwe downe theyr bannere talle, & lyche a ravenne fledde.

The soldyerres followed wythe a myghtie crie, Cryes, yatte welle myghte the stouteste hartes affraie. 795 Swefte, as yer shyppes, the vanquyshed Dacyannes flie; Swefte, as the rayne uponne an Aprylle daie, Pressynge behynde, the Englysche soldyerres slaie.

Botte halfe the tythes of Danyshe menne remayne; aella commaundes 'heie shoulde the sleetre staie, 800 Botte bynde 'hem prysonners on the bloddie playne.

The fyghtynge beynge done, I came awaie, In odher fieldes to fyghte a moe unequalle fraie.

Mie servant squyre!

CELMONDE, SERVITOURE.

CELMONDE.

Prepare a fleing horse, Whose feete are wynges, whose pace ys lycke the wynde, 805 Whoe wylle outestreppe the morneynge lyghte yn course, Leaveynge the gyttelles of the merke behynde.

Somme hyltren matters doe mie presence fynde.

Gyv oute to alle yatte I was sleene ynne fyghte.

Gyff ynne thys gare thou doest mie order mynde, 810 Whanne I returne, thou shalte be made a knyghte; Flie, flie, be gon; an howerre ys a daie; Quycke dyghte mie beste of stedes, & brynge hymm heere--awaie!

CELMONDE.

aella ys woundedd sore, & ynne the toune He waytethe, tylle hys woundes bee broghte to ethe. 815 And shalle I from hys browes plocke off the croune, Makynge the vyctore yn hys vyctorie blethe?

O no! fulle sooner schulde mie hartes blodde smethe, Fulle soonere woulde I tortured bee toe deathe; Botte--Birtha ys the pryze; ahe! ytte were ethe 820 To gayne so gayne a pryze wythe losse of breathe; Botte thanne rennome aeterne[98]--ytte ys botte ayre; Bredde ynne the phantasie, & alleyn lyvynge there.

Albeytte everyche thynge yn lyfe conspyre To telle me of the faulte I nowe schulde doe, 825 Yette woulde I battentlie a.s.suage mie fyre, And the same menes, as I scall nowe, pursue.

The qualytyes I fro mie parentes drewe, Were blodde, & morther, masterie, and warre; Thie I wylle holde to now, & hede ne moe 830 A wounde yn rennome, yanne a boddie scarre.

Nowe, aella, nowe Ime plantynge of a thorne, Bie whyche thie peace, thie love, & glorie shalle be torne.

BRYSTOWE.

BIRTHA, EGWINA.

BIRTHA.

Gentle Egwina, do notte preche me joie; I cannotte joie ynne anie thynge botte weere[99]. 835 Oh! yatte aughte schulde oure sellynesse destroie, Floddynge the face wythe woe, & brynie teare!

EGWINA.

You muste, you muste endeavour for to cheere Youre harte unto somme cherisaunced reste.

Youre loverde from the battelle wylle appere. 840 Ynne honnoure, & a greater love, be dreste; Botte I wylle call the mynstrelles roundelaie; Perchaunce the swotie sounde maie chafe your wiere[99] awaie.

BIRTHA, EGWINA, MYNSTRELLES.

MYNSTRELLES SONGE.

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, 845 Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge[100] ryver bee; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. 850

Blacke hys cryne[101] as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode[102] as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde, 855 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, 860 O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle underre the wyllowe tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, 865 In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 870 Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude: 875 Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde. 880 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. 885

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

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne, 895 Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.

Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes[103], 900 Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.

Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

BIRTHA.

Thys syngeyng haveth whatte coulde make ytte please; b.u.t.te mie uncourtlie shappe benymmes mee of all ease. 905

aeLLA, _atte_ WATCHETTE.

Curse onne mie tardie woundes! brynge mee a stede!

I wylle awaie to Birtha bie thys nyghte: Albeytte fro mie woundes mie soul doe blede, I wylle awaie, & die wythynne her syghte.

Brynge mee a stede, wythe eagle-wynges for flyghte; 910 Swefte as mie wyshe, &, as mie love ys, stronge.