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

was edged with golden twynne,

    And his shoone pyke a loverds[43] mighte have binne;

    Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne;

    The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte;                        55

  For the horse-millanare[44] his head with roses dighte.

 

    An almes, sir prieste! the droppynge pilgrim saide,

    O! let me waite within your covente dore,

    Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,

    And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer;                             60

    Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor;

    No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;

  All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche

 

    Varlet, replyd the Abbatte, cease your dinne;

    This is no season almes and prayers to give;                           65

    Mie porter never lets a faitour[45] in;

    None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.

    And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,

    And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie,

  The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie.              70

 

    Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde;

    Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen;

    Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;

    His cope and jape[46] were graie, and eke were clene;

    A Limitoure he was of order seene;                                     75

    And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,

  Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.

 

    An almes, sir priest! the droppynge pilgrim sayde,

    For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake.

    The Limitoure then loosen'd his pouche threade,                        80

    And did thereoute a groate of silver take;

    The mister pilgrim dyd for halline[47] shake.

    Here take this silver, it maie eathe[48] thie care;

  We are Goddes stewards all, nete[49] of oure owne we bare.

 

    But ah! unhailie[50] pilgrim, lerne of me,                             85

    Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde.

    Here take my semecope[51], thou arte bare I see;

    Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.

    He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.

    Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure[52],                  90

  Or give the mittee[53] will, or give the gode man power.

 

[Footnote 1: Thomas Rowley, the author, was born at Norton Mal-reward

in Somersetshire, educated at the Convent of St. Kenna at Keynesham,

and died at Westbury in Gloucestershire.]

 

[Footnote 2: meads.]

 

[Footnote 3: reddened, ripened.]

 

[Footnote 4: soft.]

 

[Footnote 5: pied goldfinch.]

 

[Footnote 6: drest, arrayed.]

 

[Footnote 7: neat, ornamental.]

 

[Footnote 8: a loose robe or mantle.]

 

[Footnote 9: the sky, the atmosphere.]

 

[Footnote 10: Arose.]

 

[Footnote 11: hiding, shrouding.]

 

[Footnote 12: at once.]

 

[Footnote 13: beauteous.]

 

[Footnote 14: It would have been _charitable_, if the author had not

pointed at personal characters in this Ballad of Charity. The Abbot

of St. Godwin's at the time of the writing of this was Ralph de

Bellomont, a great stickler for the Lancastrian family. Rowley was a

Yorkist.]

 

[Footnote 15: beggarly.]

 

[Footnote 16: filled with.]

 

[Footnote 17: beggar.]

 

[Footnote 18: clouded, dejected. A person of some note in the literary

world is of opinion, that _glum_ and _glom_ are modern cant words;

and from this circumstance doubts the authenticity of Rowley's

Manuscripts. Glum-mong in the Saxon signifies twilight, a dark or

dubious light; and the modern word _gloomy_ is derived from the Saxon

_glum_.]

 

[Footnote 19: dry, sapless.]

 

[Footnote 20: The grave.]

 

[Footnote 21: accursed, unfortunate.]

 

[Footnote 22: coffin.]

 

[Footnote 23: a sleeping room.]

 

[Footnote 24: sun-burnt.]

 

[Footnote 25: smoke.]

 

[Footnote 26: drink.]

 

[Footnote 27: _pall_, a contraction from _appall_, to fright.]

 

[Footnote 28: fly.]

 

[Footnote 29: lightning.]

 

[Footnote 30: steam, or vapours.]

 

[Footnote 31: flames.]

 

[Footnote 32: noisy.]

 

[Footnote 33: moves.]

 

[Footnote 34: swelled, strengthened.]

 

[Footnote 35: Frighted.]

 

[Footnote 36: burst.]

 

[Footnote 37: a small round hat, not unlike the shapournette in

heraldry, formerly worn by Ecclesiastics and Lawyers.]

 

[Footnote 38: painted.]

 

[Footnote 39: He told his beads backwards; a figurative expression to

signify cursing.]

 

[Footnote 40: poor, needy.]

 

[Footnote 41: a cloke.]

 

[Footnote 42: a loose white robe, worn by Priests.]

 

[Footnote 43: A lord.]

 

[Footnote 44: I believe this trade is still in being, though but

seldom employed.]

 

[Footnote 45: a beggar, or vagabond.]

 

[Footnote 46: A short surplice, worn by Friars of an inferior class,

and secular priests.]

 

[Footnote 47: joy.]

 

[Footnote 48: ease.]

 

[Footnote 49: nought.]

 

[Footnote 50: unhappy.]

 

[Footnote 51: a short under-cloke.]

 

[Footnote 52: Glory.]

 

[Footnote 53: mighty, rich.]

 

 

 

 

BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

 

[No 1.]

 

 

  O Chryste, it is a grief for me to telle,

  How manie a nobil erle and valrous knyghte

  In fyghtynge for Kynge Harrold noblie fell,

  Al sleyne in Hastyngs feeld in bloudie fyghte.

  O sea-oerteeming Dovor! han thy floude,                                   5

  Han anie fructuous entendement,

  Thou wouldst have rose and sank wyth tydes of bloude.

  Before Duke Wyllyam's knyghts han hither went;

    Whose cowart arrows manie erles sleyne,

    And brued the feeld wyth bloude as season rayne.                       10

 

  And of his knyghtes did eke full manie die,

  All passyng hie, of mickle myghte echone,

  Whose poygnant arrowes, typp'd with destynie,

  Caus'd manie wydowes to make myckle mone.

  Lordynges, avaunt, that chycken-harted are,                              15

  From out of hearynge quicklie now departe;

  Full well I wote, to synge of bloudie warre

  Will greeve your tenderlie and mayden harte.

    Go, do the weaklie womman inn mann's geare,

    And scond your mansion if grymm war come there.                        20

 

  Soone as the erlie maten belle was tolde,

  And sonne was come to byd us all good daie,

  Bothe armies on the feeld, both brave and bolde,

  Prepar'd for fyghte in champyon arraie.

  As when two bulles, destynde for Hocktide fyghte,                        25

  Are yoked bie the necke within a sparre,

  Theie rend the erthe, and travellyrs affryghte,

  Lackynge to gage the sportive bloudie warre;

    Soe lacked Harroldes menne to come to blowes,

    The Normans lacked for to wielde their bowes.                          30

 

  Kynge Harrolde turnynge to hys leegemen spake;

  My merrie men, be not caste downe in mynde;

  Your onlie lode for aye to mar or make,

  Before yon sunne has donde his welke, you'll fynde.

  Your lovyng wife, who erst dyd rid the londe                             35

  Of Lurdanes, and the treasure that you han,

  Wyll falle into the Normanne robber's honde,

  Unlesse with honde and harte you plaie the manne.

    Cheer up youre hartes, chase sorrowe farre awaie,

    Godde and Seyncte Cuthbert be the worde to daie.                       40

 

  And thenne Duke Wyllyam to his knyghtes did saie;

  My merrie menne, be bravelie everiche;

  Gif I do gayn the honore of the daie,

  Ech one of you I will make myckle riche.

  Beer you in mynde, we for a kyngdomm fyghte;                             45

  Lordshippes and honores echone shall possesse;

  Be this the worde to daie, God and my Ryghte;

  Ne doubte but God will oure true cause blesse.

    The clarions then sounded sharpe and shrille;

    Deathdoeynge blades were out intent to kille.                          50

 

  And brave Kyng Harrolde had nowe donde hys saie;

  He threwe wythe myghte amayne hys shorte horse-spear.

  The noise it made the duke to turn awaie,

  And hytt his knyghte, de Beque, upon the ear.

  His cristede beaver dyd him smalle abounde;                              55

  The cruel spear went thorough all his hede;

  The purpel bloude came goushynge to the grounde,

  And at Duke Wyllyam's feet he tumbled deade:

    So fell the myghtie tower of Standrip, whenne

    It felte the furie of the Danish menne.                                60

 

  O Afflem, son of Cuthbert, holie Sayncte,

  Come ayde thy freend, and shewe Duke Wyllyams payne;

  Take up thy pencyl, all hys features paincte;

  Thy coloryng excells a synger strayne.

  Duke Wyllyam sawe hys freende sleyne piteouslie,                         65

  Hys lovynge freende whome he muche honored,

  For he han lovd hym from puerilitie,

  And theie together bothe han bin ybred:

    O! in Duke Wyllyam's harte it raysde a flame,

    To whiche the rage of emptie wolves is tame.                           70

 

  He tooke a brasen crosse-bowe in his honde,

  And drewe it harde with all hys myghte amein,

  Ne doubtyng but the bravest in the londe

  Han by his soundynge arrowe-lede bene sleyne.

  Alured's stede, the fynest stede alive,                                  75

  Bye comelie forme knowlached from the rest;

  But nowe his destind howre did aryve,

  The arrowe hyt upon his milkwhite breste:

    So have I seen a ladie-smock soe white,

    Blown in the mornynge, and mowd downe at night.                        80

 

  With thilk a force it dyd his bodie gore,

  That in his tender guttes it entered,

  In veritee a fulle clothe yarde or more,

  And downe with flaiten noyse he sunken dede.

  Brave Alured, benethe his faithfull horse,                               85

  Was smeerd all over withe the gorie duste,

  And on hym laie the recer's lukewarme corse,

  That Alured coulde not hymself aluste.

    The standyng Normans drew theyr bowe echone,

    And broght full manie Englysh champyons downe.                         90

 

  The Normans kept aloofe, at distaunce stylle,

  The Englysh nete but short horse-spears could welde;

  The Englysh manie dethe-sure dartes did kille,

  And manie arrowes twang'd upon the sheelde.

  Kynge Haroldes knyghts desir'de for hendie stroke,                       95

  And marched furious o'er the bloudie pleyne,

  In bodie close, and made the pleyne to smoke;

  Theire sheelds rebounded arrowes back agayne.

    The Normans stode aloofe, nor hede the same,

    Their arrowes woulde do dethe, tho' from far of they came.            100

 

  Duke Wyllyam drewe agen hys arrowe strynge,

  An arrowe withe a sylver-hede drewe he;

  The arrowe dauncynge in the ayre dyd synge,

  And hytt the horse of Tosselyn on the knee.

  At this brave Tosslyn threwe his short horse-speare;                    105

  Duke Wyllyam stooped to avoyde the blowe;

  The yrone weapon hummed in his eare,

  And hitte Sir Doullie Naibor on the prowe;

    Upon his helme soe furious was the stroke,

    It splete his bever, and the ryvets broke.                            110

 

  Downe fell the beaver by Tosslyn splete in tweine,

  And onn his hede expos'd a punie wounde,

  But on Destoutvilles sholder came ameine,

  And fell'd the champyon to the bloudie grounde.

  Then Doullie myghte his bowestrynge drewe,                              115

  Enthoughte to gyve brave Tosslyn bloudie wounde,

  But Harolde's asenglave stopp'd it as it slewe,

  And it fell bootless on the bloudie grounde.

    Siere Doullie, when he sawe hys venge thus broke,

    Death-doynge blade from out the scabard toke.                         120

 

  And now the battail closde on everych syde,

  And face to face appeard the knyghts full brave;

  They lifted up theire bylles with myckle pryde,

  And manie woundes unto the Normans gave.

  So have I sene two weirs at once give grounde,                          125

  White fomyng hygh to rorynge combat runne;

  In roaryng dyn and heaven-breaking sounde,

  Burste waves on waves, and spangle in the sunne;

    And when their myghte in burstynge waves is fled,

    Like cowards, stele alonge their ozy bede.                            130

 

  Yonge Egelrede, a knyghte of comelie mien,

  Affynd unto the kynge of Dynefarre,

  At echone tylte and tourney he was seene,

  And lov'd to be amonge the bloudie warre;

  He couch'd hys launce, and ran wyth mickle myghte                       135

  Ageinste the brest of Sieur de Bonoboe;

  He grond and sunken on the place of fyghte,

  O Chryste! to fele his wounde, his harte was woe.

    Ten thousand thoughtes push'd in upon his mynde,

    Not for hymselfe, but those he left behynde.                          140

 

  He dy'd and leffed wyfe and chyldren tweine,

  Whom he wyth cheryshment did dearlie love;

  In England's court, in goode Kynge Edwarde's regne,

  He wonne the tylte, and ware her crymson glove;

  And thence unto the place where he was borne,                           145

  Together with hys welthe & better wyfe,

  To Normandie he dyd perdie returne,

  In peace and quietnesse to lead his lyfe;

    And now with sovrayn Wyllyam he came,

    To die in battel, or get welthe and fame.                             150

 

  Then, swefte as lyghtnynge, Egelredus set

  Agaynst du Barlie of the mounten head;

  In his dere hartes bloude his longe launce was wett,

  And from his courser down he tumbled dede.

  So have I sene a mountayne oak, that longe                              155

  Has caste his shadowe to the mountayne syde,

  Brave all the wyndes, tho' ever they so stronge,

  And view the briers belowe with self-taught pride;

    But, whan throwne downe by mightie thunder stroke,

    He'de rather bee a bryer than an oke.                                 160

 

  Then Egelred dyd in a declynie

  Hys launce uprere with all hys myghte ameine,

  And strok Fitzport upon the dexter eye,

  And at his pole the spear came out agayne.

  Butt as he drewe it forthe, an arrowe fledde                            165

  Wyth mickle myght sent from de Tracy's bowe,

  And at hys syde the arrowe entered,

  And oute the crymson streme of bloude gan