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many 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 he 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 terton.

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE;

OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN.

THE featherd songster chaunticleer

Han wounde hys bugle horne,

And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne :

Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes

Of lyghte eclypse the greie;

And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

"Thou'rt ryght," quod he, "for, by the Godde

That syttes enthroned on hyghe!

Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die."

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale

Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; "Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie

Hee leaves thys mortall state."
Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe
Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,

Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

"O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone,

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"Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."

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'Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne,

"Whatte says the traytour kynge?"

"I greeve to telle: before yonne sonne Does fromme the welkinn flye,

Hee hath uppon hys honour sworne

Thatt thou shalt surelie die."

"We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles,
"Of thatte I'm not affearde;

Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?
Thanke Jesu, I'm prepared :

"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
I'de sooner die to-daie.

Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
Though I shoulde lyve for aie."

Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out,
To tell the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

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ys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

and alle seinctes ynne heaven, ne shall be hys laste." nynge dropp'd a brinie teare,

the presence paste.

brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, yr Charles dydd goe, mm downe uponne a stoole, es beganne to flowe.

must die," quod brave Syr Charles; bootes ytte howe or whenne; ne sure, the certaine fate ee mortall menne.

my friende, thie honest soul

wer att thyne eye;

my most welcome doome

ou dost child-lyke crye?"

e Canynge, "I doe weepe, ou so soone must die,

thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;
s thatt wettes myne eye."

drie the tears thatt out thyne eye
dlie fountaines sprynge;
espise, and alle the power
arde, traytour kynge.

rough the tyrant's welcome means esigne my lyfe,

e I serve wylle soone provyde ne my sonnes and wyfe.

sawe the lyghtsome sunne, as appointed mee;

tall manne repyne or grudge Codde ordeynes to bee?

ft ynne battaile have I stoode, housands dyed arounde;

okynge streemes of crimson bloode 'd the fatten'd grounde:

ydd I knowe thatt every darte, utte the airie waie,

ott fynde passage toe my harte,
se myne eyes for aie?

all I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
wanne and bee dysmayde?
am my herte flie childyshe feere;
e the manne display'd.

delyke Henry! Godde forefende,
uarde thee and thye sonne,
ys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,
henne hys wylle bee donne.

est friende, my faulte has beene

ve Godde and my prynce;

tt I no tyme-server am,

the wylle soone convynce.

Londonne citye was I borne,
rents of grete note;
☛e dydd a nobile armes

From oute the reech of woe.

"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.

Ynne 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.

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'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 wyfe!

"Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes
As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie."

Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlie thynge
To bee prepared to die;

And from thys worlde cf and grefe

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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 teers?
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
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 wyfe?

The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."

And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Who turnedd to hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd saie:

"I 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,
Who 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 savest 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! tray tour vile!
Exposed to infamie;

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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 yeares, 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.

= dydd speke and sale:

that soe-much-dreaded dethe lie terrors brynge,

e manne! hee spake the truthe, eater thanne a kynge!"

nym die!" Duke Richarde sayde; aye echone oure foes

ne theyre neckes to bloudie axe, de the carryon crowes.'

the horses gentlie drewe rles uppe the hyghe hylle; ydd glysterr ynne the sunne, ious bloude to spylle.

es dydd uppe the scaffold goe, - a gilded carre

e, bye val'rous chiefs ynne the bloudie warre:

e people hee dyd saie,

de you see mee dye,

nge loyally mye kynge, nge most ryghtfullie.

e as Edwarde rules thys lande, et you wylle knowe :

hes and husbandes shalle bee slayne. ookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.

ve your goode and lawfulle kynge, e ynne adversitye;

e, untoe the true cause stycke, r the true cause dye."

nee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees, er to Godde dyd make, nge hym unto hymselfe artynge soule to take.

kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde, eemlie onne the blocke;

fromme hys bodie fayre at once ble heddes-manne stroke:

e the bloude beganne to flowe,
ounde the scaffolde twyne;
res, enow to washe❜t awaie,
flowe fromme each man's eyne.

udie axe hys bodie fayre
foure partes cutte;

erye parte, and eke hys hedde, me a pole was putte.

te dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, Onne the mynster-tower, e from off the castle-gate crowen dydd devoure :

her onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, eery spectacle ;

edde was placed onne the hyghe crosse, e hyghe strete most nobile.

was the ende of Bawdin's fate : de prosper longe oure kynge,

rante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule,

O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,

Lycke a rennynge ryver 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 bee,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,

O hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree :
Mie love ys dedde,

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.

Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres
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.

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.

1

WILLIAM GIFFORD, the son of a plumber and glazier, who dissipated his property by intemperance and extravagance, was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in April, 1755. He lost his father when only twelve years of age, and in about a year afterward his mother died, leaving himself and an infant brother, "without a relation or friend in the world." The latter was sent to the workhouse, and the subject of our memoir was received into the house of his godfather, who put him to school for about three months, but at the end of that period took him home, with the view of employing him as a ploughboy. Being unfitted, however, for this occupation, by an injury on his breast, he was sent to sea in a coasting vessel, in which he remained for nearly a year. "It will be easily conceived," he says in his autobiography, "that my life was a life of hardship. I was not only a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast,' but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot; yet, if I was restless and discontented, I can safely say it was not so much on account of this, as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading; as my master did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing, during the whole time of my abode with him, a single book of any description, except the Coasting Pilot."

farthing on earth, nor a pen, ink, and paper, th flippant remark of Lord part, as completely out o sceptre. There was, in utmost caution and secr plying to it. I beat out as possible, and wroug with a blunted awl; fo tenacious, and I could to a great extent."

Under the same unfa composed and recited to of poetry, and, being at to other circles, little him, which, he says, so much as sixpence in which he thus obtaine chase of pens, paper, & of the higher branches finding that he had, in mentioned, satirized b tomers, seized upon his hibited him from again positions. At length, i prenticeship, his lament it, having reached the surgeon, that gentleman for purchasing the rema Gifford, and for enablin writing and English gra

He now quitted sho school of the Rev. Tho years and two months f of his emancipation, h that his master declare versity. He was accor ley to Oxford, where he of the same gentleman at Exeter College, of member. Here he pur

He was at length recalled by his godfather, and again put to school, where he made such rapid progress, that in a few months he was qualified to assist his master in any extraordinary emergency; and, although only in his fifteenth year, began to think of turning instructer himself. His plans were, however, treated with contempt by his guardian, who apprenticed him to a shoemaker, at Ashburton, to whom our author went "in sullenness and in silence," and with a perfect hatred of his new occupation. His favourite pursuit at this time was arithmetic, and the manner in which he continued to extend his knowledge of that science is thus related by himself: "I possessed," he observes," but one book in the world; it was a trea-mitting diligence, and tise on algebra, given to me by a young woman, poetical translation of t who had found it in a lodging-house. I considered the death of Mr. Cookes it as a treasure, but it was a treasure locked up; of the work. A fortun for it supposed the reader to be well acquainted a new patron in Earl with simple equations, and I knew nothing of the he for some time resi matter. My master's son had purchased Fenning's panied to the continer Introduction: this was precisely what I wanted; On his return to Engl but he carefully concealed it from me, and I was and, devoting himself t indebted to chance alone for stumbling on his ed, in 1791, and 1794 hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part of satires, the Baviad, a several nights successively; and, before he sus- containing an attack or pected his treatise was discovered, had completely an invective against th mastered it. I could now enter upon my own: and In 1800, he published

Thie

in which he charged t

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