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THOMAS CHATTERTON

MINSTRELS' SONG, FROM ÆLLA

First Minstrel.

The budding floweret blushes at the light,
The meads are sprinkled with the yellow hue;
In daisied mantles is the mountain dight,

The nesh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;
The frees enleafèd, unto heaven straught,
When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din are
brought.

The evening comes, and brings the dew along;
The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne;
Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song,
Young ivy round the doorpost doth entwine;
I lay me on the grass; yet, to my will,
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

Second Minstrel.

So Adam thought when once, in Paradise,
All heaven and earth did homage to his mind;
In woman only man's chief solace lies,
As instruments of joy are those of kind.

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Go, take a wife unto thine arms, and see

Winter, and barren hills, will have a charm for thee.

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ROUNDELAY, FROM ÆLLA

OH sing unto my roundelay,
Oh drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more on holiday;

Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his skin as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabour, cudgel stout;

Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,

In the briared dell below;

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing

To the nightmares, as they go.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See the white moon shines on high,
Whiter is my true love's shroud,

Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll fix the briars,
Round his holy corse to gre,
Elfin fairies, light your fires,

Here my body still shall be.

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My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,

Dance by night, or feast by day.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

IN Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene, And hot upon the meads did cast his ray; The apple reddened from its paly green, And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray; 5 The pied chelandry sang the livelong day;

ΙΟ

'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year, And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere.

The sun was gleaming in the midst of day,

Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue,

When from the sea arose in drear array

A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,

The which full fast unto the woodland drew,

Hiding at once the sunnès festive face,

And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.

Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-side,
Which did unto Saint Godwin's convent lead,
A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,
Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed,
Long brimful of the miseries of need.
Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?
He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;
How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!
Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursèd man!
Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.
Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head
Are Charity and Love among high elves;

For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall,

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The sun-burnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain; 30

The coming ghastness doth the cattle 'pall,
And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again;
The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies,
And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.

List! now the thunder's rattling noisy sound
Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned,
Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;

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