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"An alms, Sir Priest !' the drooping pilgrim said,
O let me wait within your convent-door Till the sun shineth high above our head
And the loud tempest of the air is o'er.
Helpless and old am I, alas ! and poor :
'Varlet,' replied the Abbot, cease your din ;
This is no season alms and prayers to give ; My porter never lets a beggar in;
None touch my ring who not in honour live.'
And now the sun with the black clouds did strive, And shot upon the ground his glaring ray : The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.
Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolld :
Fast running o'er the plain a priest was seen, Not dight full proud nor buttoned up in gold ;
His cope and jape 2 were grey, and eke were clean ;
A Limitour3 he was, of order seen ;
"An alms, Sir Priest,' the drooping pilgrim said,
'For sweet Saint Mary and your order's sake!' The Limitour then loosened his pouch-thread
And did thereout a groat of silver take ;
The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake. 'Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care ; We are God's stewards all,—nought of our own we bear.
‘But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me,
Scarce any give a rentroll to their Lord : Here, take my semicope,—thou’rt bare, I see;
1. Cross, crucifix.'-Chatterton. ? A short surplice worn by friars of inferior class.---Chatterton. : A licensed begging friar.-Chatterton.
'Tis thine ; the Saints will give me my reward !'
He left the pilgrim and his way aborde ?
ECLOGUE THE FIRST.
When England, reeking from her deadly wound,
From her galled neck did pluck the chain away, Kenning her liegeful sons fall all around,
(Mighty they fell,—'twas Honour led the fray,)
Then in a dale, by eve's dark surcote grey, Two lonely shepherds did abrodden 4 fly,
(The rustling leaf doth their white hearts affray,) And with the owlet trembled and did cry.
First Robert Neatherd his sore bosom stroke,
If thus we fly in chase of further woe,
Nor will our pace swift as our danger go.
To our great wrongs we have upheapèd moe, The Barons' war! Ah, woe and well-a-day !
My life I have, but have escaped so
O Ralph ! come list, and hear my gloomy: tale,
Oh! I've a tale that Sathanas 6 might tell !
Groves far-off-kenn'd around the Hermit's cell,
Glory.'-Chatterton. · Smeethynge,' smoking.–Chatterton. 4 Abrodden,' abruptly.-Chatterton. 5 ‘Dernie,' sad.—Chatterton. 6 • Sabalus,' the Devil.'-Chatter ton. 7. Dygne,' good, neat.-Chatterton.
1. Went on.'--Chatterton.
The sweet-strung viol' dinning in the dell, — The joyous dancing in the hostel-court,
Eke the high song and every joy,-farewell !
Impestering trouble on my head doth come :-
My spreading flocks of sheep all lily-white,
My parker's-grange far spreading to the sight,
My tender kyne, my bullocks strong in fight, My garden whitened with the cumfrey-plant,
My flower-Saint-Marya glinting with the light,
I am enhardened unto sorrow's blow :
Here, like a foul-empoisoned deadly tree
So will I grow to this place fixedly 4.
I to lament have greater cause than thee, Slain in the war my dear-loved father lies.
Oh! I would slay his murderer joyously 5,
Cast out from every joy, here will I bleed ;
My son, mine only son, all death-cold? is !
A life like mine a burden is, I wis. 1 Swote ribible,' sweet violin.-Chatterton. Marygold.-Chatterton. 3 'Hantend,' accustomed.-Chatterton.
Soe wille I, fyxed unto thys place, gre.'—Chatterton. 5 Oh! joieous I hys mortherer would slea.'—Chatterton. 6 Portcullis.-Chatterton.
7. Ystorven,' dead.-Chatterton.
Even from the cot flown now is happiness : Minsters alone can boast the holy Saint :
Now doth our England wear a bloody dress,
Peace fled, Disorder shows her face dark-brow'd?,
ECLOGUE THE THIRD.
A Man; a Woman; Sir Roger.
Wouldst thou ken Nature in her better part ?
Go, search the cots and lodges of the hind ;
In hem you see the naked form of kind.
Haveth your mind a liking of a mind ?
Would it hear phrase of vulgar from the hind,
If so, read this, which I disporting penn'd :
O where do ye bend your way?
Come, come, let us trip it away :
As long as the merry summer's day. 1. Doeth Englonde.'--Chatterton.
? "Peace fledde, disorder sheweth her dark rode.' ('Rode,' complexion.) -Chatterton.
How hard is my doom to work !
Much is my woe!
With coif of gold,
I ken Sir Roger from afar,
Tripping over the lea :
Is more than me.
From every beam a seed of life doth fall.
Methinks the cocks are 'ginning to grow tall.
This is alike our doom : the great, the small, Must wither and be shrunken by death's dart.
See, the sweet floweret hath no sweet at all ; It with the rank weed beareth equal part.
The craven, warrior, and the wise be blent Alike to dry away with those they did lament.
All-a-boon, Sir Priest, all-a-boon!
By your priestship, now say unto me,
Why should he than me be more great
Attentively look o'er the sun-parched dell;
This withered floweret will a lesson tell :