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

Tho oft the oke falls by the villen's shock,

    'Tys moe than hyndes can do, to move the rock.                        420

 

  Upon du Chatelet he ferselie sett,

  And peerc'd his bodie with a force full grete;

  The asenglave of his tylt-launce was wett,

  The rollynge bloude alonge the launce did fleet.

  Advauncynge, as a mastie at a bull,                                     425

  He rann his launce into Fitz Warren's harte;

  From Partaies bowe, a wight unmercifull,

  Within his owne he felt a cruel darte;

    Close by the Norman champyons he han sleine,

    He fell; and mixd his bloude with theirs upon the pleine.             430

 

  Erie Ethelbert then hove, with clinie just,

  A launce, that stroke Partaie upon the thighe,

  And pinn'd him downe unto the gorie duste;

  Cruel, quod he, thou cruellie shalt die.

  With that his launce he enterd at his throte;                           435

  He scritch'd and screem'd in melancholie mood;

  And at his backe eftsoons came out, God wote,

  And after it a crymson streme of bloude:

    In agonie and peine he there dyd lie,

    While life and dethe strove for the masterrie,                        440

 

  He gryped hard the bloudie murdring launce,

  And in a grone he left this mortel lyfe.

  Behynde the erlie Fiscampe did advaunce,

  Bethoghte to kill him with a stabbynge knife;

  But Egward, who perceevd his fowle intent,                              445

  Eftsoons his trustie swerde he forthwyth drewe,

  And thilke a cruel blowe to Fiscampe sent,

  That soule and bodie's bloude at one gate flewe.

    Thilk deeds do all deserve, whose deeds so fowle

    Will black theire earthlie name, if not their soule.                  450

 

  When lo! an arrowe from Walleris honde,

  Winged with fate and dethe daunced alonge;

  And slewe the noble flower of Powyslonde,

  Howel ap Jevah, who yclepd the stronge.

  Whan he the first mischaunce received han,                              455

  With horsemans haste he from the armie rodde;

  And did repaire unto the cunnynge manne,

  Who sange a charme, that dyd it mickle goode;

    Then praid Seyncte Cuthbert, and our holie Dame,

    To blesse his labour, and to heal the same.                           460

 

  Then drewe the arrowe, and the wounde did seck,

  And putt the teint of holie herbies on;

  And putt a rowe of bloude-stones round his neck;

  And then did say; go, champyon, get agone.

  And now was comynge Harrolde to defend,                                 465

  And metten with Walleris cruel darte;

  His sheelde of wolf-skinn did him not attend,

  The arrow peerced into his noble harte;

    As some tall oke, hewn from the mountayne hed,

    Falls to the pleine; so fell the warriour dede.                       470

 

  His countryman, brave Mervyn ap Teudor,

  Who love of hym han from his country gone,

  When he perceevd his friend lie in his gore,

  As furious as a mountayne wolf he ranne.

  As ouphant faieries, whan the moone sheenes bryghte,                    475

  In littel circles daunce upon the greene,

  All living creatures flie far from their syghte,

  Ne by the race of destinie be seen;

    For what he be that ouphant faieries stryke,

    Their soules will wander to Kyng Offa's dyke.                         480

 

  So from the face of Mervyn Tewdor brave

  The Normans eftsoons fled awaie aghaste;

  And lefte behynde their bowe and asenglave.

  For fear of hym, in thilk a cowart haste.

  His garb sufficient were to move affryghte;                             485

  A wolf skin girded round his myddle was;

  A bear skyn, from Norwegians wan in fyghte,

  Was tytend round his shoulders by the claws:

    So Hercules, 'tis sunge, much like to him,

    Upon his sholder wore a lyon's skin.                                  490

 

  Upon his thyghes and harte-swefte legges he wore

  A hugie goat skyn, all of one grete peice;

  A boar skyn sheelde on his bare armes he bore;

  His gauntletts were the skynn of harte of greece.

  They fledde; he followed close upon their heels,                        495

  Vowynge vengeance for his deare countrymanne;

  And Siere de Sancelotte his vengeance feels;

  He peerc'd hys backe, and out the bloude ytt ranne.

    His bloude went downe the swerde unto his arme,

    In springing rivulet, alive and warme.                                500

 

  His swerde was shorte, and broade, and myckle keene,

  And no mann's bone could stonde to stoppe itts waie;

  The Normann's harte in partes two cutt cleane,

  He clos'd his eyne, and clos'd hys eyne for aie.

  Then with his swerde he sett on Fitz du Valle,                          505

  A knyghte mouch famous for to runne at tylte;

  With thilk a furie on hym he dyd falle,

  Into his neck he ranne the swerde and hylte;

    As myghtie lyghtenynge often has been founde,

    To drive an oke into unfallow'd grounde.                              510

 

  And with the swerde, that in his neck yet stoke,

  The Norman fell unto the bloudie grounde;

  And with the fall ap Tewdore's swerde he broke,

  And bloude afreshe came trickling from the wounde.

  As whan the hyndes, before a mountayne wolfe,                           515

  Flie from his paws, and angrie vysage grym;

  But when he falls into the pittie golphe,

  They dare hym to his bearde, and battone hym;

    And cause he fryghted them so muche before,

    Lyke cowart hyndes, they battone hym the more.                        520

 

  So, whan they sawe ap Tewdore was bereft

  Of his keen swerde, thatt wroghte thilke great dismaie,

  They turned about, eftsoons upon hym lept,

  And full a score engaged in the fraie.

  Mervyn ap Tewdore, ragyng as a bear,                                    525

  Seiz'd on the beaver of the Sier de Laque;

  And wring'd his hedde with such a vehement gier,

  His visage was turned round unto his backe.

    Backe to his harte retyr'd the useless gore,

    And felle upon the pleine to rise no more.                            530

 

  Then on the mightie Siere Fitz Pierce he flew,

  And broke his helm and seiz'd hym bie the throte:

  Then manie Normann knyghtes their arrowes drew,

  That enter'd into Mervyn's harte, God wote.

  In dying panges he gryp'd his throte more stronge,                      535

  And from their sockets started out his eyes;

  And from his mouthe came out his blameless tonge;

  And bothe in peyne and anguishe eftsoon dies.

    As some rude rocke torne from his bed of claie,

    Stretch'd onn the pleyne the brave ap Tewdore laie.                   540

 

  And now Erle Ethelbert and Egward came

  Brave Mervyn from the Normannes to assist;

  A myghtie siere, Fitz Chatulet bie name,

  An arrowe drew, that dyd them littel list.

  Erle Egward points his launce at Chatulet,                              545

  And Ethelbert at Walleris set his;

  And Egwald dyd the siere a hard blowe hytt,

  But Ethelbert by a myschaunce dyd miss:

    Fear laide Walleris flat upon the strande,

    He ne deserved a death from erlies hande.                             550

 

  Betwyxt the ribbes of Sire Fitz Chatelet

  The poynted launce of Egward did ypass;

  The distaunt syde thereof was ruddie wet,

  And he fell breathless on the bloudie grass.

  As cowart Walleris laie on the grounde,                                 555

  The dreaded weapon hummed oer his heade.

  And hytt the squier thylke a lethal wounde,

  Upon his fallen lorde he tumbled dead:

    Oh shame to Norman armes! a lord a slave,

    A captyve villeyn than a lorde more brave!                            560

 

  From Chatelet hys launce Erle Egward drew,

  And hit Wallerie on the dexter cheek;

  Peerc'd to his braine, and cut his tongue in two:

  There, knyght, quod he, let that thy actions speak--

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

 

 

 

BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

 

[No 2.]

 

 

    Oh Truth! immortal daughter of the skies,

    Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies,

    Teach me, fayre Saincte! thy passynge worthe to pryze,

    To blame a friend and give a foeman prayse.

    The sickle moone, bedeckt wythe sylver rays,                            5

    Leadynge a traine of starres of feeble lyghte,

    With look adigne the worlde belowe surveies,

    The world, that wotted not it coud be nyghte;

    Wyth armour dyd, with human gore ydeyd,

  She sees Kynge Harolde stande, fayre Englands curse and pryde.           10

 

    With ale and vernage drunk his souldiers lay;

    Here was an hynde, anie an erlie spredde;

    Sad keepynge of their leaders natal daie!

    This even in drinke, toomorrow with the dead!

    Thro' everie troope disorder reer'd her hedde;                         15

    Dancynge and heideignes was the onlie theme;

    Sad dome was theires, who lefte this easie bedde,

    And wak'd in torments from so sweet a dream.

    Duke Williams menne, of comeing dethe afraide,

  All nyghte to the great Godde for succour askd and praied.               20

 

    Thus Harolde to his wites that stoode arounde;

    Goe, Gyrthe and Eilward, take bills halfe a score,

    And search how farre our foeman's campe doth bound;

    Yourself have rede; I nede to saie ne more.

    My brother best belov'd of anie ore,                                   25

    My Leoswinus, goe to everich wite,

    Tell them to raunge the battel to the grore,

    And waiten tyll I sende the hest for fyghte.

    He saide; the loieaul broders lefte the place,

  Success and cheerfulness depicted on ech face.                           30

 

    Slowelie brave Gyrthe and Eilwarde dyd advaunce,

    And markd wyth care the armies dystant syde.

    When the dyre clatterynge of the shielde and launce

    Made them to be by Hugh Fitzhugh espyd.

    He lyfted up his voice, and lowdlie cryd;                              35

    Like wolfs in wintere did the Normanne yell;

    Girthe drew hys swerde, and cutte hys burled hyde;

    The proto-slene manne of the fielde he felle;

    Out streemd the bloude, and ran in smokynge curles,

  Reflected bie the moone seemd rubies mixt wyth pearles.                  40

 

    A troope of Normannes from the mass-songe came,

    Rousd from their praiers by the flotting crie;

    Thoughe Girthe and Ailwardus perceevd the same,

    Not once theie stoode abashd, or thoghte to flie.

    He seizd a bill, to conquer or to die;                                 45

    Fierce as a clevis from a rocke ytorne,

    That makes a vallie wheresoe're it lie;

    [1]Fierce as a ryver burstynge from the borne;

    So fiercelie Gyrthe hitte Fitz du Gore a blowe.

  And on the verdaunt playne he layde the champyone lowe.                  50

 

    Tancarville thus; alle peace in Williams name;

    Let none edraw his arcublaster bowe.

    Girthe cas'd his weppone as he hearde the same,

    And vengynge Normannes staid the flyinge floe.

    The sire wente onne; ye menne, what mean ye so                         55

    Thus unprovokd to courte a bloudie fyghte?

    Quod Gyrthe; oure meanynge we ne care to showe,

    Nor dread thy duke wyth all his men of myghte;

    Here single onlie these to all thie crewe

  Shall shewe what Englysh handes and heartes can doe.                     60

 

    Seek not for bloude, Tancarville calme replyd,

    Nor joie in dethe, lyke madmen most distraught;

    In peace and mercy is a Chrystians pryde;

    He that dothe contestes pryze is in a faulte.

    And now the news was to Duke William brought,                          65

    That men of Haroldes armie taken were;

    For theyre good cheere all caties were enthoughte,

    And Gyrthe and Eilwardus enjoi'd goode cheere.

    Quod Willyam; thus shall Willyam be founde

  A friend to everie manne that treades on English ground.                 70

 

    Erie Leofwinus throwghe the campe ypass'd,

    And sawe bothe men and erlies on the grounde;

    They slepte, as thoughe they woulde have slepte theyr last,

    And hadd alreadie felte theyr fatale wounde.

    He started backe, and was wyth shame astownd;                          75

    Loked wanne wyth anger, and he shooke wyth rage;

    When throughe the hollow tentes these wordes dyd sound,

    Rowse from your sleepe, detratours of the age!

    Was it for thys the stoute Norwegian bledde?

  Awake, ye huscarles, now, or waken wyth the dead.                        80

 

    As when the shepster in the shadie bowre

    In jintle slumbers chase the heat of daie,

    Hears doublyng echoe wind the wolfins rore,

    That neare hys flocke is watchynge for a praie,

    He tremblynge for his sheep drives dreeme awaie,                       85

    Gripes faste hys burled croke, and sore adradde

    Wyth fleeting strides he hastens to the fraie,

    And rage and prowess fyres the coistrell lad;

    With trustie talbots to the battel flies,

  And yell of men and dogs and wolfins tear the skies.                     90

 

    Such was the dire confusion of eche wite,

    That rose from sleep and walsome power of wine;

    Theie thoughte the foe by trechit yn the nyghte

    Had broke theyr camp and gotten paste the line;

    Now here now there the burnysht sheeldes