The Rowley Poems by Thomas Chatterton (inspirational books to read .txt) 📖

rennome æterne[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 assuage 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, Ælla, 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;

  Butte mie uncourtlie shappe benymmes mee of all ease.                   905

 

 

 

 

  ÆLLA, _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.

    The Danes have wroughte mee myckle woe ynne syghte,

    Inne kepeynge mee from Birtha's armes so longe.

    O! whatte a dome was myne, sythe masterie

  Canne yeve ne pleasaunce, nor mie londes goode leme myne eie!           915

 

    Yee goddes, howe ys a loverres temper formed!

    Sometymes the samme thynge wylle bothe bane, & blesse;

    On tyme encalede[104], yanne bie the same thynge warmd,

    Estroughted foorthe, and yanne ybrogten less.

    'Tys Birtha's loss whyche doe mie thoughtes possesse;                 920

    I wylle, I muste awaie: whie staies mie stede?

    Mie huscarles, hyther haste; prepare a dresse,

    Whyche couracyers[105] yn hastie journies nede.

    O heavens! I moste awaie to Byrtha eyne,

  For yn her lookes I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne.                       925

 

 

 

 

  CELMONDE, _att_ BRYSTOWE.

 

 

    The worlde ys darke wythe nyghte; the wyndes are stylle;

    Fayntelie the mone her palyde lyghte makes gleme;

    The upryste[106] sprytes the sylente letten[107] fylle,

    Wythe ouphant faeryes joynyng ynne the dreme;

    The forreste sheenethe wythe the sylver leme;                         930

    Nowe maie mie love be sated ynn yttes treate;

    Uponne the lynche of somme swefte reynyng streme,

    Att the swote banquette I wylle swotelie eate.

    Thys ys the howse; yee hyndes, swythyn appere.

 

 

 

 

 

  CELMONDE, SERVYTOURE.

 

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Go telle to Birtha strayte, a straungerr waytethe here.               935

 

 

 

 

  CELMONDE, BIRTHA.

 

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Celmonde! yee seynctes! I hope thou haste goode newes.

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    The hope ys loste: for heavie newes prepare.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Is Ælla welle?

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Hee lyves; & stylle maie use

    The behylte[108] blessynges of a future yeare.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

  Whatte heavie tydynge thenne have I to feare?                           940

  Of whatte mischaunce dydste thou so latelie saie?

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    For heavie tydynges swythyn nowe prepare.

    Ælla sore wounded ys, yn bykerous fraie;

    In Wedecester's wallid toune he lyes.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

  O mie agroted breast!

 

  CELMONDE:

 

                        Wythoute your syghte, he dyes.                    945

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Wylle Birtha's presence ethe herr Ælla's payne?

    I flie; newe wynges doe from mie schoulderrs sprynge.

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Mie stede wydhoute wylle deftelie beere us twayne.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Oh! I wyll flie as wynde, & no waie lynge;

    Sweftlie caparisons for rydynge brynge;                               950

    I have a mynde wynged wythe the levyn ploome.

    O Ælla, Ælla! dydste thou kenne the stynge,

    The whyche doeth canker ynne mie hartys roome,

    Thou wouldste see playne thieselfe the gare to bee;

  Aryse, uponne thie love, & flie to meeten mee.                          955

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    The stede, on whyche I came, ys swefte as ayre;

    Mie servytoures doe wayte mee nere the wode;

    Swythynne wythe mee unto the place repayre;

    To Ælla I wylle gev you conducte goode.

    Youre eyne, alyche a baulme, wylle staunche hys bloode,               960

    Holpe oppe hys woundes, & yev hys harte alle cheere;

    Uponne your eyne he holdes hys lyvelyhode[109];

    You doe hys spryte, & alle hys pleasaunce bere.

    Comme, lette's awaie, albeytte ytte ys moke,

  Yette love wille bee a tore to tourne to feere nyghtes smoke.           965

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Albeytte unwears dyd the welkynn rende,

    Reyne, alyche fallynge ryvers, dyd ferse bee,

    Erthe wythe the ayre enchased dyd contende,

    Everychone breathe of wynde wythe plagues dyd flee,

    Yette I to Ælla's eyne eftsoones woulde flee;                         970

    Albeytte hawethornes dyd mie fleshe enseme,

    Owlettes, wythe scrychynge, shakeynge everyche tree,

    And water-neders wrygglynge yn eche streme,

    Yette woulde I flie, ne under coverte staie,

  Botte seke mie Ælla owte; brave Celmonde, leade the waie.               975

 

 

 

 

  A WODE.

 

 

  HURRA, DANES.

 

  HURRA.

 

    Heere ynn yis forreste lette us watche for pree,

    Bewreckeynge on oure foemenne oure ylle warre;

    Whatteverre schalle be Englysch wee wylle slea,

    Spreddynge our ugsomme rennome to afarre.

    Ye Dacyanne menne, gyff Dacyanne menne yee are,                       980

    Lette nete botte blodde suffycyle for yee bee;

    On everich breaste yn gorie letteres scarre,

    Whatt sprytes you have, & howe those sprytes maie dree.

    And gyf yee gette awaie to Denmarkes shore,

  Eftesoones we will retourne, & vanquished bee ne moere.                 985

 

    The battelle loste, a battelle was yndede;

    Note queedes hemselfes culde stonde so harde a fraie;

    Oure verie armoure, & oure heaulmes dyd blede,

    The Dacyannes, sprytes, lyche dewe drops, fledde awaie.

    Ytte was an Ælla dyd commaunde the daie;                              990

    Ynn spyte of foemanne, I moste saie hys myghte;

    Botte wee ynn hynd-lettes blodde the loss wylle paie,

    Brynnynge, thatte we knowe howe to wynne yn fyghte;

    Wee wylle, lyke wylfes enloosed from chaynes, destroie;--

    Oure armoures--wynter nyghte shotte oute the daie of joie.            995

 

    Whene swefte-fote tyme doe rolle the daie alonge,

    Somme hamlette scalle onto oure fhuyrie brende;

    Brastynge alyche a rocke, or mountayne stronge,

    The talle chyrche-spyre upon the grene shalle bende;

    Wee wylle the walles, & auntyante tourrettes rende,                  1000

    Pete everych tree whych goldyn fruyte doe beere,

    Downe to the goddes the ownerrs dhereof sende,

  Besprengynge alle abrode sadde warre & bloddie weere.

    Botte fyrste to yynder oke-tree wee wylle flie;

  And thence wylle yssue owte onne all yatte commeth bie.                1005

 

 

 

 

  ANODHER PARTE OF THE WOODE.

 

 

  CELMONDE, BIRTHA.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Thys merkness doe affraie mie wommanns breaste.

    Howe sable ys the spreddynge skie arrayde!

    Hailie the bordeleire, who lyves to reste,

    Ne ys att nyghtys flemynge hue dysmayde;

    The starres doe scantillie[110] the sable brayde;                    1010

    Wyde ys the sylver lemes of comforte wove;

    Speke, Celmonde, does ytte make thee notte afrayde?

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Merker the nyghte, the fitter tyde for love.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Saiest thou for love? ah! love is far awaie.

  Faygne would I see once moe the roddie lemes of daie.                  1015

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Love maie bee nie, woulde Birtha calle ytte here.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    How, Celmonde, dothe thou mene?

 

  CELMONDE.

 

      Thys Celmonde menes.

    No leme, no eyne, ne mortalle manne appere,

    Ne lyghte, an acte of love for to bewreene;

    Nete in thys forreste, botte thys tore[111], dothe sheene,           1020

    The whych, potte oute, do leave the whole yn nyghte;

    See! howe the brauncynge trees doe here entwyne,

    Makeynge thys bower so pleasynge to the syghte;

    Thys was for love fyrste made, & heere ytt stondes,

  Thatte hereynne lovers maie enlyncke yn true loves bondes.             1025

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Celmonde, speake whatte thou menest, or alse mie thoughtes

    Perchaunce maie robbe thie honestie so fayre.

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Then here, & knowe, hereto I have you broughte,

    Mie longe hydde love unto you to make clere.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Oh heaven & earthe! whatte ys ytt I doe heare?                       1030

    Am I betraste[112]? where ys mie Ælla, saie!

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    O! do nete nowe to Ælla syke love bere,

    Botte geven some onne Celmondes hedde.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

                                         Awaie!

    I wylle be gone, & groape mie passage oute,

  Albeytte neders stynges mie legs do twyne aboute.                      1035

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Nowe bie the seynctes I wylle notte lette thee goe,

    Ontylle thou doeste mie brendynge love amate.

    Those eyne have caused Celmonde myckle woe,

    Yenne lette yer smyle fyrst take hymm yn regrate.

    O! didst thou see mie breastis troblous state,                       1040

    Theere love doth harrie up mie joie, and ethe!

    I wretched bee, beyonde the hele of fate,

    Gyss Birtha stylle wylle make mie harte-veynes blethe.

    Softe as the sommer flowreets, Birtha, looke,

  Fulle ylle I canne thie frownes & harde dyspleasaunce brooke.          1045

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Thie love ys foule; I woulde bee deafe for aie,

    Radher thanne heere syche deslavatie[113] sedde.

    Swythynne flie from mee, and ne further saie;

    Radher thanne heare thie love, I woulde bee dead.

    Yee seynctes! & shal I wronge mie Ælla's bedde,                      1050

    And wouldst thou, Celmonde, tempte me to the thynge?

    Lett mee be gone--alle curses onne thie hedde!

    Was ytte for thys thou dydste a message brynge!

    Lette mee be gone, thou manne of sable harte!

  Or welkyn[114] & her starres wyll take a maydens parte.                1055

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Sythence you wylle notte lette mie suyte avele,

    Mie love wylle have yttes joie, altho wythe guylte;

    Youre lymbes shall bende, albeytte strynge as stele;

    The merkye seesonne wylle your bloshes hylte[115].

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Holpe, holpe, yee seynctes! oh thatte mie blodde was spylte!         1060

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    The seynctes att distaunce stonde ynn tyme of nede.

    Strev notte to goe; thou canste notte, gyff thou wylte.

    Unto mie wysche bee kinde, & nete alse hede.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    No, foule bestoykerre, I wylle rende the ayre,

  Tylle dethe do staie mie dynne, or somme kynde roder heare.            1065

    Holpe! holpe! oh godde!

 

 

 

 

  CELMONDE, BIRTHA, HURRA, DANES.

 

 

  HURRA.

 

                    Ah! thatts a wommanne cries.

    I kenn hem; saie, who are you, yatte bee theere?

 

  CELMONDE.

 

    Yee hyndes, awaie! orre bie thys swerde yee dies.

 

  HURRA.

 

    Thie wordes wylle ne mie hartis sete affere.

 

  BIRTHA.

 

    Save mee, oh! save mee from thys royner heere!                       1070

 

  HURRA.