What while the humble floweret lowly dight Standeth unhurt, unquashèd by the storm.

Such picture is of Life: the man of might Is tempest-chafed, his woe great as his form: Thyself, a floweret of a small account,

Wouldst harder feel the wind, as higher thou didst mount.

MINSTRELS' MARRIAGE-SONG.

[From Ella; a Tragical Interlude.]

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 slim1 young cowslip bendeth with the dew;

The trees enleafèd, into heaven straught,

When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din are brought.

The evening comes and brings the dew along;
The ruddy welkin sheeneth 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, what time, in Paradise,

All heaven and earth did homage to his mind.
In woman and none else man's pleasaunce lies,
As instruments of joy are kind with kind2.
Go, take a wife unto thine arms, and see,
Winter and dusky hills will have a charm for thee.

1 'Nesh,' tender.-Chatterton.

26

Ynn womman alleyne mannès pleasaunce lyes,
As instruments of joie were made the kynde.'

VOL. III.

Ee

Chatterton.

Third Minstrel.

When Autumn stript and sunburnt doth appear,
With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,

Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf;
When all the hills with woody seed are white;

When levin-fires and gleams do meet from far the sight;

When the fair apples, red as even-sky,

Do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground; When juicy pears and berries of black dye

Do dance in air and call the eyes around;

Then, be it evening foul or evening fair,

Methinks my joy of heart is shadowed with some care.

Second Minstrel.

Angels are wrought to be of neither kind;
Angels alone from hot desire are free;
There is a somewhat ever in the mind,

That, without woman, cannot stillèd be:
No saint in cell, but, having blood and cheer 1,
Doth find the spirit joy in sight of woman fair.

Women are made not for themselves but man,-
Bone of his bone and child of his desire;
They from an useless member first began,
Y-wrought with much of water, little fire;
Therefore they seek the fire of love, to heat
The milkiness of kind, and make themselves complete.

Albeit, without women, men were peers

To savage kind, and would but live to slay;
Yet woman oft the spirit of peace so cheers,—
Dowered with angelic joy, true angels they2.
Go, take thee straightway to thy bed a wife;
Be banned, or highly blest, in proving marriage-life.

1 Tere,' health.-Chatterton.

2 ‘Tochelod yn Angel joie heie (they) Angeles bee.'—Chatterton.

THE ACCOUNTE OF W. CANYNGE'S FEAST.

BY WILLIAM CANYNGE.1

Thorowe the halle the bell han sounde;
Byelecoyle2 doe the Grave beseeme3;
The ealdermenne doe sytte arounde,

Ande snoffelle oppe the cheorte steeme.
Lyche asses wylde ynne desarte waste
Swotelye the morneynge ayre doe taste.

Syke keene theie ate; the minstrels plaie,
The dynne of angelles doe they keepe:
Heie stylle the guestes ha ne to saie,

Butte nodde yer thankes ande falle aslape.

Thus echone daie bee I to deene,

Gyf Rowley, Iscamm', or Tyb. Gorges be ne seene.

MINSTREL'S ROUNDELAY.

[From Ella.]

O sing unto my roundelay,

O drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,

Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

1 The above piece is given in Chatterton's original spelling, as a sample. 2 Fair welcome.-Chatterton. (Bel-acceuil.-Tyrwhitt.)

Becomes.-Chatterton.

Cheerful.-Chatterton.

Snuff up.-Chatterton.

The names of Canynge's favourite poets and friends, as developed in Chatterton's Rowleian system.

Black his locks 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 tabor, cudgel stout,

O 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 briar'd 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.

1 'Rode,' complexion.-Chatterton.

With my hands I'll gird1 the briars
Round his holy corse to grow 2.
Elfin Faëry, light your fires ;
Here my body still shall bow 2.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

The original concludes with the following quatrain :—

• Water-witches crowned with reytes,

Bear me to your lethal tide.

I die! I come! My true love waits!

Thus the damsel spake, and died.'

In spite of the words 'reytes' (water-flags) and 'lethal' (deadly), this stanza is a false eighteenth-century note, strangely out of harmony with the almost completely sustained tone of the rest of this noble ditty; it is moreover an awkward break-down in metre. I have ventured to transfer it from the text to this foot-note. A word may be needed as to my modernized text: wherever Chatterton's gloss-word has been adopted instead of his text-word, this is done without notification. Now and then the rhyme or clearness of phrase compelled substitution: this has been specified in the notes in every case of the least importance.