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nany of his productions show a laxity of principle caused by the last act of his life? His sister says, which might justify the supposition. The best that “he was a lover of truth from the earliest qualities in his character were the negative ones dawn of reason;" yet his life was one continued of temperance and affection for his family, to whom career of deception. He is to be pitied for his be sent small presents out of his first gains, and misfortunes, and admired for his genius; but, with always spoke of their welfare as one of the princi- Kirke White in our remembrance, we could pal ends of his exertions. But what deeper afflic. wish to forget all else that belonged to Chattion could he have brought upon them than that I terton.


Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge, BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE;

And felle down onne hys knee;

“ I'm come,” quod hee,“ unto your grace, OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN. To move your clemencye." The featherd songster chaunticleer

“ Thenne," quod the kynge, “ youre tale speke out, Han wounde hys bugle horne,

You have been much oure friende : And tolde the earlie villager

Whatever youre request may bee, The commynge of the morne :

Wee wylle to ytte attende." Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes

My nobile leige! alle my request Of lyghte eclypse the greie ;

Ys for a nobile knyghte, And herde the raven's crokynge throte

Who, though mayhap hee has donne wronge, Proclayme the fated daie.

He thoughte ytte slylle was ryghte: “ Thou’rt ryght," quod he, “ for, by the Godde “ Hee has a spouse and children twaine ; That syttes enthroned on hyghe!

Alle rewyn'd are for aie, Charles Bawdin, and hys sellowes twaine, Yff that you are resolved to lett To-daie shall surelie die."

Charles Bawdin die to-daie." Thenne wythe a jngge of nappy ale

Speke not of such a traytour vile," Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;

The kynge ynn furie sayde, "Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie

“ Before the evening starre doth shcene, Hee leaves thys mortall state.”

Bawdin shall loose hys hedde : Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe

" Justice does loudlie for hym calle, Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe ;

And hee shalle have hys meede : Hee journey'd 10 the castle-gate,

Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

Att present doe you neede ?"
But whenne hee came, hys children twaine, My nobile leige !" goode Canynge sayde,
And eke hys lovynge wyse,

Leave justice to our Godde,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,

And laye the yronne rule asyde ; For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

Be thyne the oly ve rodde. "O goode Syr Charles !" sayd Canterlone, Was Godde to serche our bertes and reines, Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."

The best were synners grete ; Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne, “Whatle says the traytour kynge ?"

Ynne all thys mortall state. "I greeve to telle: before yonne sonne

" Leit mercie rule thyne infante reigne, Does fromme the welkinn flye,

”Twylle faste thye crowne sulle sure ; Hee hath uppon hys honour sworne

From race to race thye familie Thatt thou shalt surelie die."

Alle sovereigns shall endure : “We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles, But yff wythe bloode and slanghter thou “ Or thatte I'm not affearde ;

Beginne thy infante reigne, Whalte bootes to lyve a little space?

Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows Thanke Jesu, I'm prepared :

Wylle never long remayne." “ Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, “Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile I'de sooner die to-daie.

Has scorn’d my power and mee ; Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,

Howe canst thou then for such a manne Though I shoulde lyve for aie.”

Entreate my clemencye ?" Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out,

" My nobile leige ! the trulie brave To tell the maior straite

Wylle val'rous actions prize, To gett all thynges ynne reddyness

Respect a brave and nobile mynde, For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Although ynne enemies."

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" I make no doubte butt hee ys gone,

Where soone I hope to goe ; Where wee for ever shall bee blest,

From oute the reech of woe.


“Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heaven

Thatt dydd mee being gyve
I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.
By Marie, and alle seinctes ynne heaven,

Thys sunne shall be hys laste.”
Thenne Canynge dropp'd a brinie teare,

And from the presence paste.
Wyth herte bry mm-fulle of gnawynge grief,

Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,
And sat bymm downe uponne a stoole,

And teares beganne to flowe.
Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles ;

Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;
Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Of all wee mortall menne.
* Say why, my friende, thie honest soul

Ranns over att thyne eye ;
Ys ytte for my most welcome doome

Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye ?"

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“ Hee taughte mee justice and the laws

Wyth pitie to unite;
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe

The wronge cause from the ryghte :
· Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande

To feede the hungrie poore,
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie

The hungrie fromm my doore :
“ And none can saye but alle mye lyfe

I have hys wordyes kept;
And summ'd the actyonns of the daie

Eche nyghte before I slept.
“ I have a spouse, goe aske of her

Yff I defyled her bedde;
I have a kynge, and none can laie

Black treason onne my hedde.
Yune Lent, and onne the holie eve,

Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne ;
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd

To leave thys worlde of payne ?
Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce

I shall ne see thye dethe ;
Most willynglie ynne thye just cause

Doe I resign my brethe.
Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe !

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves,

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. “ Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace,

And godlie Henrie's reigne,
Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies

For those of bloude and peyne ? · Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne,

And mangled by a hynde,
I doe defye the traytour's power,

Hee can ne harm my mynde ;
“Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole,

My lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, And ne ryche monument of brasse

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; “ Yett ynne the holie book above,

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the sarvants of the Lord

Mye name shall lyve for aie. “ Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne

I leave thys mortall lyfe : Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare

Mye sonnes and lovynge wyse ! " Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

As e'er the moneth of Maie;
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Wyth my dere wyse to staie.”
Quod Canynge, " "Tys a goodlie thynge

To bee prepared to die;
And from thys worlde of peyne and grese

To Goddo ynne heaven to flie."

Quod godlie Canynge, " I doe weepe,

That thou so soone must die,
And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;

Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.” « Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye

From godlie fountaines sprynge ; Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. * Whan through the týrant's welcome meang

I shall resigne my lyfe,
The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde

For bothe my sonnes and wyse.
* Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

Thys was appointed mee;
Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge

What Godde ordeynes to bee ?
" Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,

Whan thousands dyed arounde ;
Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode

Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde :
Howe dydd I knowe thatt every darte,

Thatt culte the airie waie,
Myghte nult fynde passage toe my harte,

And close myne eyes for aie ?
* And shall I nowe, forr seere of dethe,

Looke wanne and bee dysmayde ? Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere ;

Bee alle the manne display'd. * Ah, goddelyke Henry! Godde forefende,

And guarde thee and thye sonne,
YIF ’lis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nout,

Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.
My honest friende, my faulte has beeno

To gerve Godde and my prynce ;
And thatt I no tyme-server am,

My dethe wylle soone convynce.
* Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,

Of parents of grete note ;
My fadre dydd a nobile armes

Emblazon onne hys cote :

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And nowe the belle began to tolle,

And claryonnes to sound;
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete

A prauncyng onne the grounde :
And just before the officers

His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe,

Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
“Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,

Ynn quiet lett mee die ;
Praie Godde that every Christian soule

Maye looke onne dethe as I.
Sweet Florence! why these brinie ieers ?

Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyse,

Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie. • "Tys butt a journie I shalle goe

Untoe the lande of blysse ;
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,

Receive thys holie kysse."
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,

Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
“ Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke :
Ah, sweete Syr Charles ! why wylt thou goe

Wythoute thye lovynge wyse ?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,

Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."
And nowe the officers camo ynne

To bryngc Syr Charles awaie, Who turnedd to hys lovynge wyfe,

And thus to her dydd saie :
« 1 goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe ;

Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

And ynne theyre hertes hym love :
- Teache them to runne the nobile race

Thatt I theyre fader runne ;
Florence ! should dethe thee take-adieu !

Yee officers, leade onne.
Thenne Florence raved as anie madde,

And dydd her tresses tere ; « Oh, staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe !"

Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,

Shee fellen onne the floore ;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,

Wythe lookes fulle brave and sweete , Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern

Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before hym went the council-menne,

Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,

Muche glorious to beholde :
The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next

Appeared to the syghte,
Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,

Of godlie monkysh plyghte :

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume

Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,

Who tuned the strunge bataunt.
Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came ;

Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of Kynge Henrie's friends

Syr Charles forr to defend.
Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a cloth-ladye sledde. Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges whyte,

Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde :
Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe

Of archers strong and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,

Marched ynne goodlie route :
Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,

Why tuned the strunge bataunt :
Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't ;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,

Lyke easterne princes trick’t :
And after them a multitude

Of citizenns dydd thronge ;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes

As hee dydd passe alonge.
And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,

Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
"O Thou thatt sa vest manne fromme synne,

Washe mye soule clean thys daie !" Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat

The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge

To hys most welcom fate
Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,

And thus hys wordes declare :
“ Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile!

Exposed to infamie ;
Butt bee assured, disloyall manne!

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.
“ Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,

Thou wearest nowe a crowne ; And hast appoynted mee to die,

By power nott thyne owne.
• Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie ;

I have beene dede till nowe,
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne

For aie uponne my browe : " Whylst thou, perhapps, for some few yearos,

Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule

"Twixt kynge and tyrante hande :
" Thye power unjust, thou traytour slave!

Shall falle onne thye owne hedde"Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge

Departed thenne the sledde.


Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face,

Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie, And to hys broder Gloucester

Hee thus dydd speke and saie :
* To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,
Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,

Hee's greater thanne a kynge !"
** Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richarde sayde;

* And maye echone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,

And feede the carryon crowes.' And nowe the horses gentlie drewe

Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle ;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,

Hys pretious bloude to spylle.
Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goo,

As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs

Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre :
And to the people hee dyd saie,

"Beholde you see mee dye, For servynge loyally mye kynge,

Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.
* As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,

Ne quiet you wylle knowe:
Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne.

And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.
* You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,

Whenne ynne adversitye ;
Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,

And for the true cause dye."
Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,

A prayer to Godde dyd make, Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe

Hys partynge soule to take.
Theone kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde,

Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once

The able heddes-manne stroke :

0! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
0! droppe the brynie leare wythe meo,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ry ver bee ;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe ;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne boo,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,
0! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree :
Mie love ys

Gonne to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Harke, the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
Ynne the briered delle belowe ;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie,
Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude ;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude ;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Schalle the haren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a maydo

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the briores
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,

And rounde the scaffolde twyne ; And teares, enow to washe't awaie,

Dydd flowe fromme each man's eyne.
The bloudie are hys bodie fayre

Yanto foure partes cutte ;
And everye parte, and eke hys hedde,

U ponne a pole was putte.
One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,

One onne the mynster-tower
And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure : The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,

A dreery spectacle ; Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse,

Ynne hyghe strete most nobile. Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate :

Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Yone Heaven Godde's mercie synge!

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie ;
Lyfe and alle yts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die: I comme ; mie true love waytes.-
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.


William GIFFORD, the son of a plumber and farthing on earth, nor a friend to give me one; glazier, who dissipated his property by intempe-pen, ink, and paper, therefore, (in despite of the rance and extravagance, was born at Ashburton, in flippant remark of Lord Orford.) were, for the most Devonshire, in April, 1755. He lost his father part, as completely out of my reach as a crown and when only twelve years of age, and in about a sceptre. There was, indeed, a resource ; but the year afterward his mother died, leaving himself utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in apand an infant brother, “ without a relation or friend plying to it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth in the world.” The latter was sent to the work as possible, and wrought my problems on them house, and the subject of our memoir was received with a blunted awl; for the rest, my memory was into the house of his godfather, who put him to tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it school for about three months, but at the end of to a great extent." that period took him home, with the view of em- Under the same unfavourable circumstances, he ploying him as a ploughboy. Being unfitted, composed and recited to his associates small pieces however, for this occupation, by an injury on his of poetry, and, being at last invited to repeat them breast, he was sent to sea in a coasting vessel, in to other circles, little collections were made for which he remained for nearly a year. “ It will be him, which, he says, sometimes produced him “as easily conceived,” he says in his autobiography, much as sixpence in an evening.” The sums " that my life was a life of hardship. I was not which he thus obtained, he devoted to the puronly “a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast,' but chase of pens, paper, &c.; books of geometry, and also in the cabin, where every menial office fell 10 of the higher branches of algebra ; but his master, my lot; yet, if I was restless and discontented, I finding that he had, in some of the verses before can safely say it was not so much on account of mentioned, satirized both himself and his custhis, as of my being precluded from all possi- tomers, seized upon his books and papers, and probility of reading; as my master did not possess, nor hibited him from again repeating a line of his comdo I recollect seeing, during the whole time of my positions. At length, in the sixth year of his apabode with him, a single book of any description, prenticeship, his lamentable doggerel, as he terms except the Coasting Pilot.”

it, having reached the ears of Mr. Cookesley, a He was at length recalled by his godfather, and surgeon, that gentleman set on foot “ a subscription again put to school, where he made such rapid for purchasing the remainder of the time of Willians progress, that in a few months he was qualified to Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in assist his master in any extraordinary emergency; writing and English grammar." and, although only in his fifteenth year, began to He now quitted shoemaking, and entered the think of turning instructer himself. His plans school of the Rev. Thomas Smerdon ; and in two were, however, treated with contempt by his years and two months from what he calls the day guardian, who apprenticed him to a shoemaker, at of his emancipation, he had made such progress, Ashburton, to whom our author went “in sullen- that his master declared him to be fit for the uniness and in silence," and with a persect hatred of versity. He was accordingly sent by Mr. Cookeshis new occupation. His favourite pursuit at this ley to Oxford, where he obtained, by the exertions time was arithmetic, and the manner in which he of the same gentleman, the office of Bible render continued to extend his knowledge of that science at Exeter College, of which he was entered a is thus related by himself: “I possessed,” he ob- member. Here he pursued his studies with unreserves,“ but one book in the world ; it was a trea- mitting diligence, and had already commenced his tise on algebra, given to me by a young woman, poetical translation of the Satires of Juvenal, when who had found it in a lodging-house. I considered the death of Mr. Cookesley interrupted the progress it as a treasure, but it was a treasure locked up ; of the work. A fortunate accident procured him for it supposed the reader to be well quainted a new patron in Earl Grosvenor, in whose family with simple equations, and I knew nothing of the he for some time resided, and afterward accommatter. My master's son had purchased Fenning's panied to the continent his son, Lord Belgrave. Introduction : this was precisely what I wanted ; On his return to England, he settled in London, but he carefully concealed it from me, and I was and, devoting himself to literary pursuits, publishindebted to chance alone for stumbling on his ed, in 1791, and 1794, successively, his poetical hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part of satires, the Baviad, and the Mæviad; the one several nights successively; and, before he sus containing an attack on the drama, and the other pected his treatise was discovered, had completely an invective against the favourite poets of the day. mastered it. I could now enter upon my own; and In 1800, he published his Epistle to Peter Pindar, that carried me pretty far into the science. This in which he charged the satirist with blasphemy i was not done without difficulty. I had not a and Wolcot accused him of obscenity. This led to

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