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SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

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With an Introductory Essay,

BY THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.

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IN THREE VOLS.

VOL. I.

M.DCCC.LX.

INTRODUCTORY ESSAY

We propose to introduce our 'Specimens' by a short Essay on the Origin and Progress of English Poetry on to the days of Chaucer and of Gower. Having called, in conjunction with many other critics, Chaucer 'the Father of English Poetry,' to seek to go back further may seem like pursuing antenatal researches. But while Chaucer was the sun, a certain glimmering dawn had gone before him, and to reflect that, is the object of the following pages.

Britain, when the Romans invaded it, was a barbarous country; and although subjugated and long held by that people, they seem to have left it nearly as uncultivated and illiterate as they found it. 'No magnificent remains,' says Macaulay, 'of Latian porches and aqueducts are to be found in Britain. No writer of British birth is to be reckoned among the masters of Latin poetry and eloquence. It is not probable that the islanders were, at any time, generally familiar with the tongue of their Italian rulers. From the Atlantic to the vicinity of the Rhine the Latin has, during many centuries, been predominant. It drove out the Celtic—it was not driven out by the Teutonic—and it is at this day the basis of the French, Spanish, and Portuguese languages. In our island the Latin appears never to have superseded the old Gaelic speech, and could not stand its ground before the German.' It was in the fifth century that that modification of the German or Teutonic speech called the Anglo-Saxon was introduced into this country. It soon asserted its superiority over the British tongue, which seemed to retreat before it, reluctantly and proudly, like a lion, into the mountain-fastnesses of Wales or to the rocky sea-beach of Cornwall. The triumph was not completed all at once, but from the beginning it was secure. The bards of Wales continued to sing, but their strains resembled the mutterings of thunder among their own hills, only half heard in the distant valleys, and exciting neither curiosity nor awe. For five centuries, with the exception of some Latin words added by the preachers of Christianity, the Anglo-Saxon language continued much as it was when first introduced. Barbarous as the manners of the people were, literature was by no means left without a witness. Its chief cultivators were the monks and other religious persons, who spent their leisure in multiplying books, either by original composition or by transcription, including treatises on theology, historical chronicles, and a great abundance and variety of poetical productions. These were written at first exclusively in Latin, but occasionally, in process of time, in the Anglo- Saxon tongue. The theology taught in them was, no doubt, crude and corrupted, the history was stuffed with fables, and the poetry was rough and bald in the extreme; but still they furnished a food fitted for the awakening mind of the age. When the Christian religion reached Great Britain, it brought necessarily with it an impulse to intellect as well as to morality. So startling are the facts it relates, so broad and deep the principles it lays down, so humane the spirit it inculcates, and so ravishing the hopes it awakens, that, however disguised in superstition and clouded by imperfect representation, it never fails to produce, in all countries to which it comes, a resurrection of the nation's virtue, and a revival, for a time at least, of the nation's political and intellectual energy and genius. Hence we find the very earliest literary names in our early annals are those of Christian missionaries. Such is said to have been Gildas, a Briton, who lived in the first part of the sixth century, and is the reputed author of a short history of Britain in Latin. Such was the still more apocryphal Nennius, also called, till of late, the writer of a small Latin historical work. Such was St Columbanus, who was born in Ireland in 560; became a monk in the Irish monastery of Benchor; and afterwards, at the head of twelve disciples, preached Christianity, in its most ascetic form, in England and in France; founded in the latter country various monasteries; and, when banished by Queen Brunehaut on account of his stern inflexibility of character, went to Switzerland, and then to Lombardy, proselytising the heathen, and defending, by his letters and other writings, the peculiar tenets of the Irish Church in reference to the time of the celebration of Easter and to the popular heresies of the day. He died October 2, 615, in the monastery of Bobbio; and his religious treatises and Latin poetry gave an undoubted impulse to the age's progress in letters.

About this period the better sort of Saxons, both clergy and laity, got into the habit of visiting Rome; while Rome, in her turn, sent emissaries to England. Thus, while the one insensibly imbibed new knowledge as well as devotion from the great centre, the other brought with them to our shores importations of books, including copies of such religious classics as Josephus and Chrysostom, and of such literary classics as Homer. About 680, died Caedmon, a monk of Whitby, one of the first who composed in Anglo-Saxon, and some of whose compositions are preserved. Strange and myth-like stories are told by Bede about this remarkable natural genius. He was originally a cow-herd. Partly from want of training, and partly from bashfulness, when the harp was given him in the hall, and he was asked, as all others were, to raise the voice of song, Caedmon had often to abscond in confusion. On one occasion he had retired to the stable, where he fell into a sound sleep. He dreamed that a stranger appeared to him, and said, 'Caedmon, sing me something.' Caedmon replied that it was his incapacity to sing which had brought him to take refuge in the stable. 'Nay,' said the stranger, 'but thou hast something to sing.' 'What shall I sing?' rejoined Caedmon. 'Sing the Creation,' and thereupon he began to pour out verses, which, when he awoke, he remembered, repeated, and to which he added others as good. The first lines are, as translated into English, the following:—

Now let us praise
The Guardian of heaven,
The might of the Creator
And his counsel—
The Glory!—Father of men!
He first created,
For the children of men,
Heaven as a roof—
The holy Creator!
Then the world—
The Guardian of mankind!
The Eternal Lord!
Produced afterwards
The Earth for men—
The Almighty Master!'

Our readers all remember the well-known story of Coleridge falling asleep over Purchas's 'Pilgrims'; how the poem of 'Kubla Khan' came rushing from dreamland upon his soul; and how, when awakened, he wrote it down, and found it to be, if not sense, something better—a glorious piece of fantastic imagination. We knew a gentleman who, slumbering while in a state of bad health, produced, in the course of a few hours, one or two thousand rhymed lines, some of which he repeated in our hearing afterwards, and which were full of point and poetry. We cannot see that Caedmon's lines betray any weird inspiration; but when rehearsed the next day to the Abbess Hilda, to whom the town-bailiff of Whitby conducted him, she and a circle of learned men pronounced that he had received the gift of song direct from heaven! They, after one or two other trials of his powers, persuaded him to become a monk in the house of the Abbess, who commanded him to transfer to verse the whole of the Scripture history. It is said that he was constantly employed in repeating to himself what he had heard; or, as one of his old biographers has it, 'like a clean animal ruminating it, he turned it into most sweet verse.' In this way he wrote or rather improvised a vast quantity of poetry, chiefly on religious subjects. Thorpe, in his edition of this author, has preserved a speech of Satan, bearing a striking resemblance to some parts of Milton:—

'Boiled within him
His thought about his heart,
Hot was without him,
His due punishment.
"This narrow place is most unlike
That other that we formerly knew
High in heaven's kingdom,
Which my master bestowed on me,
Though we it, for the All-Powerful,
May not possess.

* * * * *

That is to me of sorrows the greatest,
That Adam,
Who was wrought of earth,
Shall possess
My strong seat;
That it shall be to him in delight,
And we endure this torment,
Misery in this hell.

* * * * *

Here is a vast fire,
Above and underneath.
Never did I see
A loathlier landscape.
The flame abateth not
Hot over hell.
Me hath the clasping of these rings,
This hard-polished band,
Impeded in my course,
Debarred me from my way.
My feet are bound,
My hands manacled;
Of these hell-doors are
The ways obstructed,
So that with aught I cannot
From these limb-bonds escape.
About me lie
Huge gratings
Of hard iron,
Forged with heat,
With which me God
Hath fastened by the neck.
Thus perceive I that he knoweth my mind,
And that he knew also,
The Lord of hosts,
That should us through Adam
Evil befall,
About the realm of heaven,
Where I had power of my hands."'

Through these rude lines there flashes forth, like fire through a thick dull grating, a powerful conception—one which Milton has borrowed and developed—that of the Evil One feeling in his dark bosom jealousy at young Man, almost overpowering his hatred to God; and another conception still more striking, that of the devil's thorough conviction that all his plans and thoughts are entirely known by his great Adversary, and are counteracted before they are formed—

'Thus perceive I that he knoweth my mind.'

Compare this with Milton's lines—

'So should I purchase dear
Short intermission, bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging peace.'

Caedmon saw, without being able fully to express, the complex idea of Satan, as distracted between a thousand thoughts, all miserable—tossed between a thousand winds, all hot as hell—'pale ire, envy, and despair' struggling within him—fury at man overlapping anger at God—remorse and reckless desperation wringing each other's miserable hands—a sense of guilt which will not confess, a fear that will not quake, a sorrow that will not weep, a respect for God which will not worship; and yet, springing out of all these elements, a strange, proud joy, as though the torrid soil of Pandemonium should flower, which makes 'the hell he suffers seem a heaven,' compared to what his destiny might be were he either plunged into a deeper abyss, or taken up unchanged to his former abode of glory. This, in part at least, the monk of Whitby discerned; but it was reserved for Milton to embody it in that tremendous figure which has since continued to dwindle all the efforts of art, and to haunt, like a reality, the human imagination.

Passing over some interesting but subordinate Saxon writers, such as Ceolfrid, Abbot of Wearmouth; Aldhelm, Abbot of Malmesbury; Felix of Croyland; and Alcuine, King Egbert's librarian at York, we come to one who himself formed an era in the history of our early literature—the venerable Bede. This famous man was educated in the monastery of Wearmouth, and there appears to have spent the whole of his quiet, innocent, and studious life. He was the very sublimation of a book-worm. One might fancy him becoming at last, as in the 'Metamorphoses' of Ovid, one of the books, or rolls of vellum and parchment over which he con- stantly pored. That he did not marry, or was given in marriage, we are certain; but there is little evidence that he even ate or drank, walked or slept. To read and to write seemed the 'be all and the end all' of his existence. Important as well as numerous were his contributions to literature. He translated from the Scriptures. He wrote religious treatises, biographies, and commentaries upon portions of Holy Writ. Besides his very valuable Ecclesiastical History, he composed various pieces of Latin poetry. His works in all were forty-four in number: and it is said that on the very day of his death (it took place in 735) he was dictating to his amanuensis, and had just completed a book. His works are wonderful for his time, and not the less interesting for a fine cobweb of fable which is woven over parts of them, and which seems in keeping with their venerable character. Thus, in speaking of the Magi who visited the infant Redeemer, he is very particular in describing their age, appearance, and offerings. Melchior, the first, was old, had gray hair, and a long beard; and offered 'gold' to Christ, in, acknowledgment of His sovereignty. Gaspar, the second, was young, and had no beard; and he offered 'frankincense,' in recognition of our Lord's divinity. Balthasar, the third, was of a dark complexion, had a large beard, and offered 'myrrh' to our Saviour's humanity. We should, we confess, miss such pleasant little myths in other old books besides Bede's Histories. They seem appropriate to ancient works, as the beard is to the goat or the hermit; and the truth that lies in them is not difficult to eliminate. The next name of note in our literary annals is that of the great Alfred. Surely if ever man was not only before his age, but before 'all ages,' it was he. A palm of the tropics growing on a naked Highland mountain-side, or an English oak bending over one of the hot springs of Hecla, were not a stranger or more preternatural sight than a man like Alfred appearing in a century like the ninth. A thousand theories about men being the creatures of their age, the products of circumstances, &c., sink into abeyance beside the facts of his life; and we are driven to the good old belief that to some men the 'inspiration of the Almighty giveth understanding;' and that their wisdom, their genius, and their excellency do not proceed from them-selves. On his deeds of valour and patriotism it is not necessary to dwell. These form the popular and bepraised side of his character, but they give a very inadequate idea of the whole. On one occasion he visited the Danish camp—a king disguised as a harper; but he was, all his life long, a harper disguised as a king. He was at once a warrior, a legislator, an architect, a shipbuilder, a philosopher, a scholar, and a poet. His great object, as avowed in his last will, was to leave his people 'free as their own thoughts.' Hence he bent the whole force of his mind, first, to defend them from foreign foes, by encouraging the new naval strength he had himself established; and then to cultivate their intellects, and make them, as well as their country, worth defending. Let us quote the glowing words of Burke:—'He was indefatigable in his endeavours to bring into England men of learning in all branches from every part of Europe, and unbounded in his liberality to them. He enacted by a law that every person possessed of two hides of land should send their children to school until sixteen. He enterprised even a greater design than that of forming the growing generation—to instruct even the grown, enjoining all his sheriffs and other officers immediately to apply themselves to learning, or to quit their offices. Whatever trouble he took to extend the benefits of learning among his subjects, he shewed the example himself, and applied to the cultivation of his mind with unparalleled diligence and success. He could neither read nor write at twelve years old, but he improved his time in such a manner, that he became one of the most knowing men of his age, in geometry, in philosophy, in architecture, and in music. He applied himself to the improvement of his native language; he translated several valuable works from Latin, and wrote a vast number of poems in the Saxon tongue with a wonderful facility and happiness. He not only excelled in the theory of the arts and sciences, but possessed a great mechanical genius for the executive part. He improved the manner of shipbuilding, introduced a more beautiful and commodious architecture, and even taught his countrymen the art of making bricks; most of the buildings having been of wood before his time—in a word, he comprehended in the greatness of his mind the whole of government, and all its parts at once; and what is most difficult to human frailty was at the same time sublime and minute.'

Some exaggeration must be allowed for in all this account of Alfred the Great. But the fact that he left a stamp in his age so deep,—that nothing except what was good and great has been ascribed to him,—that the very fictions told of him are of such vraisemblance and magnitude as to FIT IN to nothing less than an extraordinary man,—and that, as Burke says, 'whatever dark spots of human frailty may have adhered to such a character, are entirely hid in the splendour of many shining qualities and grand virtues, that throw a glory over the obscure period in which he lived, and which is for no other reason worthy of our knowledge,'—all proclaim his supremacy. Like many great men,—like Julius Caesar, with his epilepsy—or Sir Walter Scott and Byron, with their lameness—or Schleiermacher, with his deformed appearance,—a physical infirmity beset Alfred most of his life, and at last carried him off at a comparatively early age. This was a disease in his bowels, which had long afflicted him, 'without interrupting his designs, or souring his temper.' Nay, who can say that the constant presence of such a memento of weakness and mortality did not operate as a strong, quiet stimulus to do with his might what his hand found to do—to lower pride, and to prompt to labour? If Saladin had had for his companion some such faithful hound of sorrow, it would have saved him the ostentatious flag stretched over his head, in the hour of wassail, with the inscription, 'Saladin, Saladin, king of kings! Saladin must die!'

Alfred wrote little that was original, but he was a copious translator. He rendered into the Anglo-Saxon tongue—which he sought to enrich with the fatness of other soils—the historical works of Orosius and of Bede; nay, it is said the Fables of Aesop, and the Psalms of David—desirous, it would seem, to teach his people morality and religion, through the fine medium, of fiction and poetry.

Alfric, Archbishop of Canterbury, is the name of another important contributor to Saxon literature. He wrote a grammar of his native language, which procured him the name of the 'Grammarian,' besides a collection of homilies, some theological treatises, and a translation of the first seven books of the Old Testament. In imitation of Alfred, he devoted all his energies to the instruction of the common people, constantly writing in Anglo-Saxon, and avoiding as much as possible the use of compound or obscure words. After him appeared Cynewulf, Bishop of Winchester, Wulfstan, Archbishop of York, and others of some note. There was also slowly piled up in the course of ages, and by a succession of authors, that remarkable production, 'The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.' This is thought to have commenced soon after the reign of Alfred, and continued till the times of Henry II. Previous, however, to the Norman invasion, there had been a decided falling off in the learning of the Saxons. This arose from various causes. Incessant wars tended to conserve and increase the barbarism of the people. Various libraries of value were destroyed by the incursions of the Danes. And not a few bishops, and other ecclesiastical dignitaries, began to consider learning as prejudicial to piety-and grammar and ungodliness were thought akin. The effect of this upon the subordinate clergy was most pernicious. In the tenth century, Oswald, Archbishop of Canterbury, found the monks of his province so grossly ignorant, not only of letters, but even of the canonical rules of their respective orders, that he required to send to France for competent masters to give them instruction.

At length came the Conqueror, William, and one battle gave England to the Normans, which had cost the Romans, the Saxons, and the Danes so much time and blood to acquire. The people were not only conquered, but cowed and crushed. England was as easily and effectually subdued as was Ireland, sometime after, by Henry II. But while the Conquest was for a season fatal to liberty, it was from the first favourable to every species of literature, art, and poetry. 'The influence,' says Campbell, 'of the Norman Conquest upon the language of England was like that of a great inundation, which at first buries the face of the landscape under its waters, but which, at last subsiding, leaves behind it the elements of new beauty and fertility. Its first effect was to degrade the Anglo- Saxon tongue to the exclusive use of the inferior orders, and by the transference of estates ecclesiastical benefices, and civil dignities to Norman possessors, to give the French language, which had begun to prevail at court from the time of Edward the Confessor, a more complete predominance among the higher classes of society. The native gentry of England were either driven into exile, or depressed into a state of dependence on their conqueror, which habituated them to speak his language. On the other hand, we received from the Normans the first germs of romantic poetry; and our language was ultimately indebted to them for a wealth and compass of expression which it probably would not have otherwise possessed.'

The Anglo-Saxon, however, held its place long among the lower orders, and specimens of it, both in prose and verse, are found a century after the Conquest. Gradually the Norman tongue began to amalgamate with it, and the result was, the English. At what precise year our language might be said to begin, it is impossible to determine. Throughout the whole of the twelfth century, great changes were taking place in the grammatical construction, as well as in the substance of the Anglo-Saxon. Some new words were imported from the Norman, but, as Dr Johnson remarks, 'the language was still more materially altered by the change of its sounds, the cutting short of its syllables, and the softening down of its terminations, and inflections of words.' Somewhere between 1180 and 1216, the majestic speech in which Shakspeare was to write 'Macbeth' and 'King Lear,' Lord Bacon his 'Advancement of Learning,' Milton his 'Paradise Lost' and 'Areopagitica,' Burke his 'Reflections,' and Sir Walter Scott the Waverley Novels, and whose rough, but manly accents were to be spoken by at least a hundred million tongues, commenced its career, and not since Homer,

"on the Chian strand, Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea,"

had a nobler era been marked in the history of literature. For here was a tongue born which was destined to mate even with that of Greece in richness and flexibility, to make the language of Cicero and Virgil seem stiff and stilted in comparison, and, if not to vie with the French in airy grace, or with the Italian in liquid music, to excel them far in teeming resources and robust energy. Memorable and hallowed for ever be the hour when the 'well of English undefiled' first sparkled to the day!

Previous to this the chief of the poets, after the Conquest, were Normans. The country whence that people came had for some time been celebrated for poetry. France was, as to its poetic literature, divided into two great sections—the Provençal and the Northern. The first was like the country where it flourished—gay, flowery, and exuberant; it swam in romance, and its rhymers delighted, when addressing large audiences under the open skies of their delightful climate, to indulge in compliment and fanfaronade, to sing of war, wine, and love.

The Normans produced a race of simpler poets. That some of them were men as well as singers, is proved by the fact that it was a bard named Taillefer who first broke the English ranks at the battle of Hastings. After him came Philippe de Thaun, who tried to set to song the science of his day; Thorold, the author of a romance entitled 'Roland;' Samson de Nauteuil, the translator of Solomon's Proverbs into French verse; Geoffrey Gaimar, who wrote a Chronicle of the Saxon kings; and one David, a minstrel of no little note and power in his day. But a more remarkable writer succeeded, and his work, like Aaron's rod, swallowed up all the productions of these clever but petty poets. This was Wace, commonly called Maistre Wace, a native of Jersey. In 1160, or as some say 1155, Wace finished his 'Brut d'Angleterre' which is in reality a translation into French of Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote a History of Britain from the imaginary Brutus of Troy down to Cadwallader in 689. Literature owes not a little to Wace's poem. He collected into a permanent shape a number of traditions and legends—many of them interesting—which had been floating through Europe, just as Macpherson preserved in Ossian not a few real fragments of the songs of Selma. And, as we shall see immediately, Wace's production became the basis of the earliest of English poems.

Maistre Wace is the author also of a History of the Normans, which he calls 'Roman de Rou;' or, 'The Romance of Rollo.' He was a great favourite with Henry II., who bestowed on him a canonry in the Cathedral of Bayeux. Besides Wace, there flourished about the same time Benoit, who wrote a History of the Dukes of Normandy; and Guernes, a churchman of Pont St Maxence in Picardy, who wrote in verse a Life of St Thomas à Becket.

At the beginning of the century following the Conquest, the chief authors, such as Peter of Blois, John of Salisbury, Joseph of Exeter, and Geoffrey of Monmouth, all wrote in Latin. Layamon, however, a priest of Ernesley- upon-Severn, used the vernacular in a poem which, as we have already hinted, was essentially a translation of Wace's 'Brut d'Angleterre.' The most remarkable thing about Layamon's poem is the language in which it is written-language in which you catch English in the very act of chipping the Saxon shell, or, as Campbell happily remarks, 'the style of Layamon is as nearly the intermediate state of the old and new languages as can be found in any ancient specimen —something like the new insect stirring its wings before it has shaken off the aurelia state.'

Between Layamon and Robert of Gloucester a good many miscellaneous strains—some of a satirical, others of an amatory, and others again of a legendary and devout style—were produced. It was customary then for minstrels, at the instance of the clergy, to sing on Sundays devotional strains on the harp to the assembled multitudes. At public entertainments, during week-days, gay ditties were common. One of these is extant, but is too coarse for quotation. It is entitled 'The Land of Cokayne,' an allegorical satire on the luxury and vice of the Church, given under the description of an imaginary paradise, in which the nuns are represented as houris, and the black and grey monks as their paramours. 'Richard of Alemaine' is a ballad, composed by an adherent of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, after the defeat of the Royal party at the battle of Lewes in 1264. In the year after that battle the Royal cause rallied, and the Earl of Warren and Sir Hugh Bigod returned from exile, and helped the King in his victory. In the battle of Lewes, Richard, King of the Romans, his brother Henry III., and Prince Edward, with many others of the Royal party, were taken prisoners. [Note: See 'Richard of Alemaine,' Percy's Reliques, vol. ii., p. 2.]

The spirit and the allusions of this song shew that it was composed by Leicester's party in the moment of their victory, and not after the reaction which took place against their cause, and it must therefore belong to the thirteenth century. To this period, too, probably belongs a political satire, published by Ritson, and which Campbell thus charac- terises:—'It is a ballad on the execution of the Scottish patriots, Sir William Wallace and Sir Simon Frazer. The diction is as barbarous as we should expect from a song of triumph on such a subject. It relates the death and treatment of Wallace very minutely. The circumstance of his being covered with a mock crown of laurel in Westminster Hall, which Stow repeats, is there mentioned, and that of his legs being fastened with iron fetters "under his horse's wombe" is told with savage exultation. The piece was probably indited in the very year of the political murders which it celebrates, certainly before 1314, as it mentions the skulking of Robert Bruce, which, after the battle of Bannockburn, must have become a jest out of season.'

Campbell quotes a love-ditty of this period, which is not devoid of merit:—

'For her love I cark and cave,
For her love I droop and dare,
For her love my bliss is bare,
And all I wax wan.

'For her love in sleep I slake,[1]
For her love all night I wake,
For her love mourning I make
More than any man.'

[1] 'In sleep I slake:' am deprived of sleep.

And another of a pastoral vein:—

'When the nightingale singës the woods waxen green,
Leaf, grass, and blossom springs in Avril I ween,
And love is to my heart gone, with one spear so keen,
Night and day my blood it drinks, my heart doth me teen.'

About a hundred years after Layamon (in 1280) appeared a poet not dissimilar to him, named Robert of Gloucester. His surname is unknown, and so are the particulars of his history. We know only that he was a monk of Gloucester Abbey, that he lived in the reigns of Henry III. and Edward I., and that he translated the Legends of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and continued the History of England down to the time of Edward I. This work is wonder- fully minute, and, generally speaking, accurate in its topography as well as narrative, and was of service to Selden when he wrote his Notes to Drayton's 'Polyolbion.' It is more valuable in this respect than as a piece of imagination.

He narrates the grandest events—such as the first crusaders bursting into Asia, with a sword of fire hung in the firmament before them, and beckoning them on their way—as coolly as he might the emigration of a colony of ants. Yet, although there is little animation or poetry in his general manner, he usually succeeds in riveting the reader's attention; and the speeches he puts into the mouths of his heroes glow with at least rhetorical fire. And as a critic truly remarks—'Injustice to the ancient versifier, we should remember that he had still only a rude language to employ, the speech of boors and burghers, which, though it might possess a few songs and satires, could afford him no models of heroic narration. In such an age the first occupant passes uninspired over subjects which might kindle the highest enthusiasm in the poet of a riper period, as the savage treads unconsciously in his deserts over mines of incalculable value, without sagacity to discover or inplements to explore them.' We give the following extracts from Robert of Gloucester's poem:—

THE SPOUTS AND SOLEMNITIES WHICH FOLLOWED KING ARTHUR'S CORONATION.

The king was to his palace, tho the service was ydo,[1]
Yled with his meinie,[2] and the queen to her also.
For they held the old usages, that men with men were
By themselve, and women by themselve also there.
When they were each one yset, as it to their state become,
Kay, king of Anjou, a thousand knightës nome[3]
Of noble men, yclothed in ermine each one
Of one suit, and served at this noble feast anon.
Bedwer the botyler, king of Normandy,
Nome also in his half a fair company
Of one suit for to serve of the hotelery.
Before the queen it was also of all such courtesy,
For to tell all the nobley that there was ydo,
Though my tongue were of steel, me should nought dure thereto.
Women ne kept of no knight in druery,[4]
But he were in arms well yproved, and atte least thrye.[5]
That made, lo, the women the chaster life lead,
And the knights the stalwarder, and the better in their deed.
Soon after this noble meat, as right was of such tide,
The knights atyled them about in eachë side,
In fields and in meadows to prove their bachlery,[6]
Some with lance, some with sword, without villany,
With playing at tables, other attë chekere,[7]
With casting, other with setting,[8] other in some other mannere.
And which so of any game had the mastery,
The king them of his giftës did large courtesy.
Up the alurs[9] of the castle the ladies then stood,
And beheld this noble game, and which knights were good.
All the three extë dayës[10] ylastë this nobley,
In halle's and in fieldës, of meat and eke of play.
These men come the fourth day before the kingë there,
And he gave them large gifts, ever as they worthy were.
Bishoprics and churches' clerks he gave some,
And castles and townës knights that were ycome.

[1] 'Tho the service was ydo:' when the service was done. [2] 'Meinie:' attendants. [3] 'Nome': brought. [4] 'Druery.' modesty, decorum. [5] 'Thrye:' thrice. [6] 'Bachlery:' chivalry, courage, or youth. [7] 'Chekere:' chess. [8] 'With casting, other with setting:' different ways of playing at chess. [9] 'Alurs:' walks made within the battlements of the castle. [10] 'Extë dayës:' high, or chief days.

AN OLD TRADITION.

It was a tradition invented by the old fablers that giants brought the stones of Stonehenge from the most sequestered deserts of Africa, and placed them in Ireland; that every stone was washed with juices of herbs, and contained a medical power; and that Merlin, the magician, at the request of King Arthur, transported them from Ireland, and erected them in circles on the plain of Amesbury, as a sepulchral monument for the Britons treacherously slain by Hengist. This fable is thus delivered, without decoration, by Robert of Glocester:—

'Sir king,' quoth Merlin then, 'such thingë's ywis
Ne be for to shew nought, but when great need is,
For if I said in bismare, other but it need were,
Soon from me he would wend, the ghost that doth me lere.'[1]
The king, then none other n'as, bid him some quaintise
Bethink about thilk cors that so noble were and wise.[2]
'Sir King,' quoth Merlin then, 'if thou wilt here cast
In the honour of men, a work that ever shall ylast,
To the hill of Kylar[3] send in to Ireland,
After the noble stonës that there habbet[4] long ystand;
That was the treche of giants,[5] for a quaintë work there is
Of stonës all with art ymade, in the world such none is.
Ne there n'is nothing that me should myd[6] strength adownë cast.
Stood they here, as they doth there, ever a woulde last.'
The king somdeal to-lygh[7], when he heardë this tale:
'How might,' he said, 'such stonës, so great and so fale,[8]
Be ybrought of so far land? And yet mist of were,
Me would ween that in this landë no stone to wonke n'ere.'
Sir king,' quoth Merlin, 'ne make nought an idle such laughing;
For it n'is an idle nought that I tell this tiding.
For in the farrest stude of Afric giants whilë fet [9]
These stones for medicine and in Ireland them set,
While they wonenden in Ireland to make their bathë's there,
There under for to bathë when they sick were.
For they would the stonës wash and therein bathe ywis;
For is no stone there among that of great virtue n'is.'
The king and his counsel rode the stones for to fet,
And with great power of battle if any more them let.
Uther, the kingë's brother, that Ambrose hett[10] also,
In another namë ychosë was thereto,
And fifteen thousand men, this deedë for to do,
And Merlin for his quaintise thither went also.

[1] If I should say any thing out of wantonness or vanity, the spirit which teaches me would immediately leave me. [2] Bade him use his cunning, for the sake of the bodies of those noble and wise Britons. [3] 'Kylar:' Kildare. [4] 'Habbet:' have. [5] 'The treche of giants:' 'The dance of giants.' The name of this collection of immense stones. [6] 'Myd:' with. [7] 'Somdeal to-lygh:' somewhat laughed. [8] 'Fale:' many. [9] Giants once brought them from the furthest part of Africa. [10] 'Hett:' was called.

ARTHUR'S INTRIGUE WITH YGERNE.

At the feast of Easter the king sent his sond,[1]
That they comen all to London the high men of this lond,
And the ladies all so good, to his noble feast wide,
For he shouldë crown here, for the high tide.
All the noble men of this land to the noble feast come,
And their wivës and their daughtren with them many nome,[2]
This feast was noble enow, and nobliche ydo;
For many was the fair lady that ycome was thereto.
Ygerne, Gorloys' wife, was fairest of each one,
That was Countess of Cornëwall, for so fair n'as there none.
The king beheld her fast enow, and his heart on her cast,
And thoughtë, though he were wise, to do folly at last.
He made her semblant fair enow, to none other so great.
The earl n'as not therewith ypayed[3], when he it under get.
After meat he nome his wife myd[4] sturdy med enow,
And, without leave of the king, to his country drow.
The king sentë to him then, to byleve[5] all night,
For he must of great counsel havë some insight.
That was for nought. Would he not, the king sent yet his sond,
That he byleved at his parlement, for need of the lond.
The king was, when he n'oldë not, anguyssous and wroth.
For despite he would a-wreak be he sworë his oath,
But he come to amendëment. His power attë last
He garked, and went forth to Cornëwall fast.
Gorloys his castles a store all about.
In a strong castle he did his wife, for of her was all his doubt,
In another himself he was, for he n'oldë nought,
If cas[6] come, that they were both to death ybrought.
The castle, that the earl in was, the king besieged fast,
For he might not his gins for shame to the other cast.
Then he was there seen not, and he speddë nought,
Ygerne, the countessë, so much was in his thought,
That he nustë none other wit, ne he ne might for shame
Tell it but a privy knight, Ulfyn was his name,
That he trustë most to. And when the knight heard thia,
'Sir,' he said, 'I ne can wit, what rede hereof is,
For the castle is so strong, that the lady is in,
For I ween all the land ne should it myd strengthë win.
For the sea goeth all about, but entry one there n'is,
And that is up on hardë rocks, and so narrow way it is,
That there may go but one and one, that three men within
Might slay all the laud, ere they come therein.
And nought for then, if Merlin at the counsel were,
If any might, he couthë the best rede thee lere.'[7]
Merlin was soon of sent, pled it was him soon,
That he should the best rede say, what were to don.
Merlin was sorry enow for the kingë's folly,
And natheless, 'Sir king,' he said, 'there may to mast'ry,
The earl hath two men him near, Brithoel and Jordan.
I will make thyself, if thou wilt, through art that I can,
Have all the formë of the earl, as thou were right he,
And Olfyn as Jordan, and as Brithoel me.'
This art was all clean ydo, that all changed they were,
They three in the others' form, the solve as it were.
Against even he went forth, nustë[8] no man that cas;
To the castle they come right as it even was.
The porter ysaw his lord come, and his most privy twei,
With good heart he let his lord in, and his men bey.
The countess was glad enow, when her lord to her come
And either other in their arms myd great joy nome.
When they to beddë come, that so long a-two were,
With them was so great delight, that between them there
Begot was the best body, that ever was in this land,
King Arthur the noble man, that ever worthy understand.
When the king's men nuste amorrow, where he was become,
They fared as wodëmen, and wend[9] he were ynome.[10]
They assaileden the castle, as it should adown anon,
They that within were, garked them each one,
And smote out in a full will, and fought myd there fone:
So that the earl was yslaw, and of his men many one,
And the castle was ynome, and the folk to-sprad there,
Yet, though they haddë all ydo, they ne found not the king there.
The tiding to the countess soon was ycome,
That her lord was yslaw, and the castle ynome.
And when the messenger him saw the earl, as him thought,
That he had so foul plow, full sore him of thought,
The countess made somedeal deol,[11] for no sothness they nustë.
The king, for to glad her, beclipt her and cust.
'Dame,' he said,' no sixt thou well, that les it is all this:
Ne wo'st thou well I am alive. I will thee say how it is.
Out of the castle stillëlich I went all in privity,
That none of minë men it nustë, for to speak with thee.
And when they mist me to-day, and nuste where I was,
They fareden right as giddy men, myd whom no rede n'as,
And foughtë with the folk without, and have in this mannere
Ylore the castle and themselve, and well thou wo'st I am here.
And for my castle, that is ylore, sorry I am enow,
And for my men, that the king and his power slew.
And my power is to lute, therefore I dreadë sore,
Lestë the king us nyme[12] here, and sorrow that we were more.
Therefore I will, how so it be, wend against the king,
And make my peace with him, ere he us to shamë bring.'
Forth he went, and het[13] his men if the king come,
That they shouldë him the castle yield, ere he with strength it nome.
So he come toward his men, his own form he nome,
And leaved the earl's form, and the king Uther become.
Sore him of thought the earlë's death, and in other half he found
Joy in his heart, for the countess of spousehed was unbound,
When he had that he would, and paysed[14] with his son,
To the countess he went again, me let him in anon.
"What halt[15] it to tale longë? but they were set at one,
In great love long enow, when it n'oldë other gon;
And had together this noble son, that in the world his pere n'as,
The king Arthur, and a daughter, Anne her namë was.

[1] 'Sond' message. [2] 'Nome:' took. [3] 'Ypayed:' satisfied. [4] 'Myd:' with. [5] 'Byleve:' stay. [6] 'Cas:' chance. [7] 'Lere:' teach. [8] 'Nustë:' knew. [9] 'Wend:' thought. [10] 'Ynome:' taken. [11] 'Deol:' grief. [12] 'Nyme:' take. [13] 'Het:' bade. [14] 'Paysed:' made peace. [15] 'Halt:' holdeth.

The next name of note is Robert, commonly called De Brunne. His real name was Robert Manning. He was born at Malton in Yorkshire; for some time belonged to the house of Sixhill, a Gilbertine monastery in Yorkshire; and afterwards became a member of Brunne or Browne, a priory of black canons in the same county. When monastical writers became famous, they were usually designated from the religious houses to which they belonged. Thus it was with Matthew of Westminster, William of Malmesbury, and John of Glastonbury—all received their appellations from their respective monasteries. De Brunne's principal work is a Chronicle of the History of England, in rhyme. It can in no way be considered an original production, but is partly translated, and partly compiled from the writings of Maistre Wace and Peter de Langtoft, which latter was a canon of Bridlington in Yorkshire, of Norman origin, but born in England, and the author of an entire History of his country in French verse, down to the end of the reign of Edward I. Brunne's Chronicle seems to have been written about the year 1303. We extract the Prologue, and two other passages:—

THE PROLOGUE.

'Lordlingës that be now here,
If ye willë listen and lere,
All the story of England,
As Robert Mannyng written it fand,
And in English has it shewed,
Not for the leared but for the lewed;[1]
For those that on this land wonn
That the Latin ne Frankys conn,[2]
For to have solace and gamen
In fellowship when they sit samen,
And it is wisdom for to witten
The state of the land, and have it written,
"What manner of folk first it wan,
And of what kind it first began.
And good it is for many things,
For to hear the deeds of kings,
Whilk were fools, and whilk were wise,
And whilk of them couth[3] most quaintise;
And whilk did wrong, and whilk right,
And whilk maintained peace and fight.
Of their deedës shall be my saw,
In what time, and of what law,
I shall you from gre to gre,[4]
Since the time of Sir Noe:
From Noe unto Eneas,
And what betwixt them was,
And from Eneas till Brutus' time,
That kind he tells in this rhyme.
For Brutus to Cadwallader's,
The last Briton that this land lees.
All that kind and all the fruit
That come of Brutus that is the Brute;
And the right Brute is told no more
Than the Britons' timë wore.
After the Britons the English camen,
The lordship of this land they nameu;
South and north, west and east,
That call men now the English gest.
When they first among the Britons,
That now are English then were Saxons,
Saxons English hight all oliche.
They arrived up at Sandwiche,
In the kings since Vortogerne
That the land would them not werne, &c.
One Master Wace the Frankës tells
The Brute all that the Latin spells,
From Eneas to Cadwallader, &c.
And right as Master Wacë says,
I tell mine English the same ways,' &c.

[1] 'Lowed:' ignorant. [2] 'Conn:' know. [3] 'Couth:' knew. [4] 'Gre:' step.

KING VORTIGERN'S MEETING WITH PRINCESS KODWEN.

Hengist that day did his might,
That all were glad, king and knight,
And as they were best in glading,
And wele cop schotin[1] knight and king,
Of chamber Rouewen so gent,
Before the king in hall she went.
A cup with wine she had in hand,
And her attire was well-farand.[2]
Before the king on knee set,
And in her language she him gret.
'Lauerid[3] king, Wassail,' said she.
The king asked, what should be.
In that language the king ne couth.[4]
A knight the language lered[5] in youth.
Breg hight that knight, born Bretoun,
That lered the language of Sessoun.[6]
This Breg was the latimer,[7]
What she said told Vortager.
'Sir,' Breg said, 'Rowen you greets,
And king calls and lord you leets.[8]
This is their custom and their gest,
When they are at the ale or feast.
Ilk man that louis quare him think,
Shall say Wosseil, and to him drink.
He that bidis shall say, Wassail,
The other shall say again, Drinkhail.
That says Wosseil drinks of the cup,
Kissing his fellow he gives it up.
Drinkheil, he says, and drinks thereof,
Kissing him in bourd and skof.'[9]
The king said, as the knight 'gan ken,[10]
Drinkheil, smiling on Rouewen.
Rouwen drank as her list,
And gave the king, sine[11] him kist.
There was the first wassail in deed,
And that first of fame gede.[12]
Of that wassail men told great tale,
And wassail when they were at ale,
And drinkheil to them that drank,
Thus was wassail tane[13] to thank.
Fele sithës[14] that maiden ying,[15]
Wassailed and kist the king.
Of body she was right avenant,[16]
Of fair colour, with sweet semblant.[17]
Her attire full well it seemed,
Mervelik[18] the king she quemid.[19]
Out of measure was he glad,
For of that maiden he were all mad.
Drunkenness the fiend wrought,
Of that paen[20] was all his thought.
A mischance that time him led,
He asked that paen for to wed.
Hengist wild not draw a lite,[21]
But granted him, allë so tite.[22]
And Hors his brother consented soon.
Her friendis said, it were to don.
They asked the king to give her Kent,
In douery to take of rent.
Upon that maiden his heart so cast,
That they asked the king made fast.
I ween the king took her that day,
And wedded her on paien's lay.[23]
Of priest was there no benison
No mass sungen, no orison.
In seisine he had her that night.
Of Kent he gave Hengist the right.
The earl that time, that Kent all held,
Sir Goragon, that had the sheld,
Of that gift no thing ne wist
To[24] he was cast out with[25] Hengist.

[1] 'Schotin:' sending about the cups briskly. [2] 'Well-farand:' very rich. [3] 'Lauerid:' lord. [4] 'Ne couth:' knew not. [5] 'Lered:' learned. [6] 'Sessoun:' Saxons. [7] 'Latimer:' for Latiner, or Latinier, an interpreter. [8] 'Leets:' esteems. [9] 'Skof:' sport, joke. [10] 'Ken:' to signify. [11] 'Sine:' then. [12] 'Cede:' went. [13] 'Tane:' taken. [14] 'Sithës:' many times. [15] 'Ying:' young. [16] 'Avenant:' handsome. [17] 'Semblant:' countenance. [18] 'Mervelik:' marvellously. [19] 'Quemid:' pleased. [20] 'Paen:' pagan, heathen. [21] 'Wild not draw a lite:' would not fly off a bit. [22] 'Tite:' happeneth. [23] 'On paien's lay:' in pagan's law; according to the heathenish custom. [24] 'To:' till. [25] 'With:' by.

THE ATTACK OF RICHARD I. ON A CASTLE HELD BY THE SARACENS.

The dikes were fullë wide that closed the castle about,
And deep on ilka side, with bankis high without.
Was there none entry that to the castle 'gan ligg,[1]
But a strait kaucë;[2] at the end a draw-brig,
With great double chainës drawen over the gate,
And fifty armed swainës porters at that gate.
With slingës and mangonels they cast to king Richard,
Our Christians by parcels casted againward.
Ten sergeants of the best his targe 'gan him bear
That eager were and prest[3] to cover him and to were.[4]
Himself as a giant the chainës in two hew,
The targe was his warant,[5] that none till him threw.
Eight unto the gate with the targe they yede,
Fighting on a gate, under him they slew his steed,
Therefore ne would he cease, alone into the castele
Through them all would press; on foot fought he full wele.
And when he was within, and fought as a wild lión,
He fondred the Sarazins otuynne,[6] and fought as a dragon,
Without the Christians 'gan cry, 'Alas! Richard is taken;'
Then Normans were sorry, of countenance 'gan blaken,
To slay down and to' stroy never would they stint,
They left fordied[7] no noye,[8] ne for no wound no dint,
That in went all their press, maugre the Sarazins all,
And found Richard on dais fighting, and won the hall.

[1] 'Ligg:' lying. [2] 'Kaucë:' causey. [3] 'Prest:' ready. [4] 'Were:' defend. [5] 'Warant:' guard. [6] 'He fondred the Sarazins otuynne:' he formed the Saracens into two parties. [7] 'Fordied:' undone. [8] 'No noye:' annoy.

Of De Brunne, Warton judiciously remarks—'Our author also translated into English rhymes the treatise of Cardinal Bonaventura, his contemporary, De coena et passione Domini, et paenis S. Mariae Virgins. But I forbear to give more extracts from this writer, who appears to have possessed much more industry than genius, and cannot at present be read with much pleasure. Yet it should be remembered that even such a writer as Robert de Brunne, uncouth and unpleasing as he naturally seems, and chiefly employed in turning the theology of his age into rhyme, contributed to form a style, to teach expression, and to polish his native tongue. In the infancy of language and composition, nothing is wanted but writers;—at that period even the most artless have their use.'

Here we may allude to the introduction of romantic fiction into English poetry. This had, as we have seen, reigned in France. There troubadours in Provence, and men more worthy of the name of poets in Normandy, had long sung of Brutus, of Charlemagne, and of Rollo. And thence a class, called sometimes Joculators, sometimes Jongleurs, and sometimes Minstrels, issued, harp in hand, wandering to and fro, and singing tales of chivalry and love, composed either by themselves, or by other poets living or dead. (We refer our readers to our first volume of Percy's 'Reliques,' for a full account of this class, and of the poetry they produced.) These wanderers reached England in due time and brought with them compositions which found favour and excited emulation, or at least imitation, in our vernacular genius. Hence came a great swarm of romances, all more or less derived from the French, even when Saxon in subject and style; such as 'Sir Tristrem,' (which Sir Walter Scott tried in vain to prove to be written by the famous Thomas the Rhymer, of Ercildoun, or Earlston, in Berwickshire, who died before 1299;) 'The Life of Alexander the Great,' said to be written by Adam Davie, Marshall of Stratford-le-Bow, who lived about 1312; 'King Horn,' which certainly belongs to the latter part of the thirteenth century; 'The Squire of Low Degree; 'Sir Guy;' 'Sir Degore;' 'The King of Tars;' 'King Robert of Sicily;' 'La Mort d'Arthur;' 'Impodemon;' and, more lately, 'Sir Libius;' 'Sir Thopas;' 'Sir Isenbras;' 'Gawan and Gologras;' and 'Sir Bevis.' Richard I. also formed the subject of a very popular romance. We give extracts from it:—

THE SOLDAN SALADIN SENDS KING RICHARD A HORSE.

'Thou sayst thy God is full of might:
Wilt thou grant with spear and shield,
To detryve the right in the field,
With helm, hauberk, and brandës bright,
On strongë steedës good and light,
Whether be of more power,
Thy God almight, or Jupiter?
And he sent rue to sayë this
If thou wilt have an horse of his,
In all the lands that thou hast gone
Such ne thou sawest never none:
Favel of Cyprus, ne Lyard of Prys,[1]
Be not at need as he is;
And if thou wilt, this samë day,
He shall be brought thee to assay.'
Richard answered, 'Thou sayest well
Such a horse, by Saint Michael,
I would have to ride upon.——
Bid him send that horse to me,
And I shall assay what he be,
If he be trusty, withoutë fail,
I keep none other to me in battail.'
The messengers then homë went,
And told the Soldan in present,
That Richard in the field would come him unto:
The rich Soldan bade to come him unto
A noble clerk that couldë well conjure,
That was a master necromansour:
He commanded, as I you tell,
Thorough the fiendë's might of hell,
Two strong fiendë's of the air,
In likeness of two steedës fair,
Both like in hue and hair,
As men said that there were:
No man saw never none sich;
That one was a mare iliche,
That other a colt, a noble steed,
Where that he were in any mead,
(Were the knight never so bold.)
When the mare neigh wold,
(That him should hold against his will,)
But soon he wouldë go her till,
And kneel down and suck his dame,
Therewith the Soldan with shame
Shouldë king Richard quell,
All this an angel 'gan him tell,
That to him came about midnight.
'Awake,' he said, 'Goddis knight:
My Lord doth thee to understand
That thee shalt come an horse to land,
Fair it is, of body ypight,
To betray thee if the Soldan might;
On him to ride have thou no drede
For he thee helpë shall at need.'

The angel gives king Richard several directions about managing this infernal horse, and a general engagement ensuing, between the Christian and Saracen armies,

He leapt on horse when it was light;
Ere he in his saddle did leap
Of many thingës he took keep.—
His men brought them that he bade,
A square tree of forty feet,
Before his saddle anon he it set,
Fast that they should it brase, &c.
Himself was richëly begone,
From the crest right to the tone,[2]
He was covered wondrously wele
All with splentës of good steel,
And there above an hauberk.
A shaft he had of trusty werk,
Upon his shoulders a shield of steel,
With the libards[3] painted wele;
And helm he had of rich entaile,
Trusty and true was his ventaile:
Upon his crest a dovë white,
Significant of the Holy Sprite,
Upon a cross the dovë stood
Of gold ywrought rich and good,
God[4] himself, Mary and John,
As he was done the rood upon,[5]
In significance for whom he fought,
The spear-head forgat he nought,
Upon his shaft he would it have
Goddis name thereon was grave;
Now hearken what oath he sware,
Ere they to the battaile went there:
'If it were so, that Richard might
Slay the Soldan in field with fight,
At our willë evereachone
He and his should gone
Into the city of Babylon;
And the king of Macedon
He should have under his hand;
And if the Soldan of that land
Might slay Richard in the field
With sword or spearë under shield,
That Christian men shouldë go
Out of that land for evermo,
And the Saracens their will in wold.'
Quoth king Richard, 'Thereto I hold,
Thereto my glove, as I am knight.'
They be armed and ready dight:
King Richard to his saddle did leap,
Certes, who that would takë keep
To see that sight it were sair;
Their steedës rannë with great ayre,[6]
All so hard as they might dyre,[7]
After their feetë sprang out fire:
Tabors and trumpettës 'gan blow:
There men might see in a throw
How king Richard, that noble man,
Encountered with the Soldan,
The chief was toldë of Damas,
His trust upon his marë was,
And therefor, as the book[8] us tells,
His crupper hungë full of bells,
And his peytrel[9] and his arsowne[10]
Three mile men might hear the soun.
His mare neighed, his bells did ring,
For greatë pride, without lesing,
A falcon brode[11] in hand he bare,
For he thought he wouldë there
Have slain Richard with treasoun
When his colt should kneelë down,
As a colt shouldë suck his dame,
And he was 'warë of that shame,
His ears with wax were stopped fast,
Therefore Richard was not aghast,
He struck the steed that under him went,
And gave the Soldan his death with a dent:
In his shieldë verament
Was painted a serpent,
With the spear that Richard held
He bare him thorough under his sheld,
None of his armour might him last,
Bridle and peytrel all to-brast,
His girthës and his stirrups also,
His ruare to groundë wentë tho;
Maugre her head, he made her seech
The ground, withoutë morë speech,
His feet toward the firmament,
Behinde him the spear outwent
There he fell dead on the green,
Richard smote the fiend with spurrës keen,
And in the name of the Holy Ghost
He driveth into the heathen host,
And as soon as he was come,
Asunder he brake the sheltron,[12]
And all that ever afore him stode,
Horse and man to the groundë yode,
Twenty foot on either side.
When the king of France and his men wist
That the mast'ry had the Christian,
They waxed bold, and good heart took,
Steedës bestrode, and shaftës shook.

[1] 'Favel of Cyprus, ne Lyard of Prys:' Favel of Cyprus, and Lyard of Paris, horses of Kichard's. [2] 'Tone:' toes. [3] 'Libards:' leopards. [4] 'God:' our Saviour. [5] 'As he was done the rood upon:' as he died upon the cross. [6] 'Ayre:' ire. [7] 'Dyre:' dare. [8] 'The book:' the French romance. [9] 'Peytrel:' the breast-plate or breast-band of a horse. [10] 'Arsowne:' saddle-bow. [11] 'falcon brode:' F. bird. [12] 'Sheltrou:' 'schiltron:' soldiers drawn up in a circle.

From 'Sir Degore' we quote the description of a dragon, which Warton thinks drawn by a master:—

DEGORE AND THE DRAGON.

Degorë went forth his way,
Through a forest half a day:
He heard no man, nor sawë none,
Till it past the high none,
Then heard he great strokës fall,
That it made greatë noise withal,
Full soonë he thought that to see,
To weetë what the strokes might be:
There was an earl, both stout and gay,
He was come there that samë day,
For to hunt for a deer or a doe,
But his houndës were gone him fro.
Then was there a dragon great and grim,
Full of fire and also venim,
With a wide throat and tuskës great,
Upon that knight fast 'gan he beat.
And as a lion then was his feet,
His tail was long, and full unmeet:
Between his head and his tail
Was twenty-two foot withouten fail;
His body was like a wine tun,
He shone full bright against the sun:
His eyes were bright as any glass,
His scales were hard as any brass;
And thereto he was necked like a horse,
He bare his head up with great force:
The breath of his mouth that did out blow
As it had been a fire on lowe[1].
He was to look on, as I you tell,
As it had been a fiend of hell.
Many a man he had shent,
And many a horsë he had rent.

[1] 'On lowe:' in flame.

From Davie's supposed 'Life of Alexander' we extract a description of a battle, which shews some energy of genius:—

A BATTLE

Alisander before is ryde,
And many gentle a knight him myde;[1]
As for to gather his meinie free,
He abideth under a tree:
Forty thousand of chivalry
He taketh in his company,
He dasheth him then fast forthward,
And the other cometh afterward.
He seeth his knightës in mischief,
He taketh it greatly a grief,
He takes Bultyphal[2] by the side,
So as a swallow he 'ginneth forth glide.
A duke of Persia soon he met,
And with his lance he him grett.
He píerceth his breny, cleaveth his shieldë,
The heartë tokeneth the yrnë;
The duke fell downë to the ground,
And starf[3] quickly in that stound:
Alisander aloud then said,
Other toll never I ne paid,
Yet ye shallen of mine pay,
Ere I go more assay.
Another lance in hand he hent,
Against the prince of Tyre he went
He … him thorough the breast and thare
And out of saddle and crouthe him bare,
And I say for soothë thing
He brake his neck in the falling.
… with muchel wonder,
Antiochus haddë him under,
And with sword would his heved[4]
From his body have yreaved:
He saw Alisander the goodë gome,
Towards him swithë come,
He lete[5] his prey, and flew on horse,
For to save his owen corse:
Antiochus on steed leap,
Of none woundës ne took he keep,
And eke he had fourë forde
All ymade with spearës' ord.[6]
Tholomeus and all his felawen[7]
Of this succour so weren welfawen,
Alysander made a cry hardy,
'Ore tost aby aby.'
Then the knightës of Achaÿ
Jousted with them of Araby,
They of Rome with them of Mede,
Many land….
Egypt jousted with them of Tyre,
Simple knights with richë sire:
There n'as foregift ne forbearing
Betweenë vavasour[8] ne king;
Before men mighten and behind
Cunteck[9] seek and cunteck find.
With Persians foughten the Gregeys,[10]
There was cry and great honteys.[11]
They kidden[12] that they weren mice,
They broken spearës all to slice.
There might knight find his pere,
There lost many his distrere:[13]
There was quick in little thraw,[14]
Many gentle knight yslaw:
Many armë, many heved[15]
Some from the body reaved:
Many gentle lavedy[16]
There lost quick her amy.[17]
There was many maim yled,[18]
Many fair pensel bebled:[19]
There was swordës liklaking,[20]
There was spearës bathing,
Both kingës there sans doute
Be in dash'd with all their route, &c.

[1] 'Myde:' with. [2] 'Bultyphal:' Bucephalus. [3] 'Starf:' died. [4] 'Heved: head. [5] 'Lete:' left. [6] 'Ord:' point. [7] 'Felawen;' fellows. [7] 'Vavasour:' subject. [8] 'Cunteck:' strife. [9] 'Gregeys:' Greeks. [10] 'Honteys:' shame. [11] 'Kidden:' thought. [12] 'Distrere:' horse. [13] 'Little thraw:' short time. [14] 'Heved:' head. [15] 'Lavedy:' lady. [16] 'Amy:' paramour. [17] 'Yled:' led along, maimed. [18] 'Many fair pensel bebled:' many a banner sprinkled with blood. [19] 'Liklaking:' clashing.

Davie was also the author of an original poem, entitled, 'Visions in
Verse,' and of the 'Battle of Jerusalem,' in which he versifies a French
romance. In this production Pilate is represented as challenging our
Lord to single combat!

In 1349, died Richard Rollo, a hermit, and a verse-writer. He lived a secluded life near the nunnery of Hampole in Yorkshire, and wrote a number of devotional pieces, most of them very dull. In 1350, Lawrence Minot produced some short narrative ballads on the victories of Edward III., beginning with Halidon Hill, and ending with the siege of Guisnes Castle. His works lay till the end of the last century obscure in a MS. of the Cotton Collection, which was supposed to be a transcript of the Works of Chaucer. On a spare leaf of the MS. there had been accidentally written a name, probably that of its original possessor, 'Richard Chawsir.' This the getter-up of the Cotton catalogue imagined to be the name of Geoffrey Chaucer. Mr Tyrwhitt, while foraging for materials to his edition of 'The Canterbury Tales,' accidentally found out who the real writer was; and Ritson afterwards published Minot's ballads, which are ten in number, written in the northern dialect, and in an alliterative style, and with considerable spirit and liveliness. He has been called the Tyrtaeus of his age.

We come now to the immediate predecessor of Chaucer—Robert Langlande. He was a secular priest, born at Mortimer's Cleobury, in Shropshire, and educated at Oriel College, Oxford. He wrote, towards the end of the fourteenth century, a very remarkable work, entitled, 'Visions of William concerning Piers Plowman.' The general object of this poem is to denounce the abuses of society, and to inculcate, upon both clergy and laity, their respective duties. One William is represented as falling asleep among the Malvern Hills, and sees in his dream a succession of visions, in which great ingenuity, great boldness, and here and there a powerful vein of poetry, are displayed. Truth is described as a magnificent tower, and Falsehood as a deep dungeon. In one canto Religion descends, and gives a long harangue about what should be the conduct of society and of individuals. Bribery and Falsehood, in another part of the poem, seek a marriage with each other, and make their way to the courts of justice, where they find many friends. Some very whimsical passages are introduced. The Power of Grace confers upon Piers Plowman, who stands for the Christian Life, four stout oxen, to cultivate the field of Truth. These are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, the last of whom is described as the gentlest of the team. She afterwards assigns him the like number of stots or bullocks, to harrow what the evangelists had ploughed, and this new horned team consists of Saint or Stot Ambrose, Stot Austin, Stot Gregory, and Stot Jerome.

Apart from its fantastic structure, 'Piers Plowman' was not only a sign of the times, but did great service in its day. His voice rings like that of Israel's minor prophets—like Nahum or Hosea—in a dark and corrupt age. He proclaims liberal and independent sentiments, he attacks slavery and superstition, and he predicts the doom of the Papacy as with a thunder-knell. Chaucer must have felt roused to his share of the reformatory work by the success of 'Piers Plowman;' Spenser is suspected to have read and borrowed from him; and even Milton, in his description of a lazar-house in 'Paradise Lost,' had him probably in his eye. (See our last extract from 'Piers.')

On account of the great merit and peculiarity of this work we proceed to make rather copious extracts.

HUMAN LIFE.

Then 'gan I to meten[1] a marvellous sweven,[2]
That I was in wilderness, I wist never where:
As I beheld into the east, on high to the sun,
I saw a tower on a loft, richly ymaked,
A deep dale beneath, a dungeon therein,
With deep ditches and dark, and dreadful of sight:
A fair field full of folk found I there between,
Of all manner men, the mean and the rich,
Working and wand'ring, as the world asketh;
Some put them to the plough, playeden full seld,
In setting and sowing swonken[3] full hard:
And some put them to pride, &c.

[1] 'Meten:' dream. [2] 'Sweven:' dream. [3] 'Swonken:' toiled.

ALLEGORICAL PICTURES.

Thus robed in russet, I roamed about
All a summer season, for to seek Dowell
And freyned[1] full oft, of folk that I met
If any wight wist where Dowell was at inn,
And what man he might be, of many man I asked;
Was never wight as I went, that me wysh[2] could
Where this lad lenged,[3] lessë or more,
Till it befell on a Friday, two friars I met
Masters of the Minors,[4] men of greatë wit.
I halsed them hendely,[5] as I had learned,
And prayed them for charity, ere they passed further,
If they knew any court or country as they went
Where that Dowell dwelleth, do me to wit,[6]
For they be men on this mould, that most widë walk
And know countries and courts, and many kinnes[7] places,
Both princes' palaces, and poor mennë's cotes,
And Dowell, and Doevil, where they dwell both.
'Amongst us,' quoth the Minors, 'that man is dwelling
And ever hath as I hope, and ever shall hereafter.'
Contra, quod I, as a clerk, and cumsed to disputen,
And said them soothly, Septies in die cadit justus,
Seven sythes,[8] sayeth the book, sinneth the rightful,
And whoso sinneth, I say, doth evil as methinketh,
And Dowell and Doevil may not dwell together,
Ergo he is not alway among you friars;
He is other while elsewhere, to wyshen[9] the people.
'I shall say thee, my son,' said the friar then,
'How seven sithes the saddë[10] man on a day sinneth,
By a forvisne'[11] quod the friar, 'I shall thee fair shew;
Let bring a man in a boat, amid the broad water,
The wind and the water, and the boatë wagging,
Make a man many time, to fall and to stand,
For stand he never so stiff, he stumbleth if he move,
And yet is he safe and sound, and so him behoveth,
For if he ne arise the rather, and raght[12] to the steer,
The wind would with the water the boat overthrow,
And then were his life lost through latches[13] of himself.
And thus it falleth,' quod the friar, 'by folk here on earth,
The water is lik'ned to the world, that waneth and waxeth,
The goods of this world are likened to the great waves
That as winds and weathers, walken about,
The boat is liken'd to our body, that brittle is of kind,
That through the flesh, and the frailë world
Sinneth the saddë man, a day seven times,
And deadly sin doeth he not, for Dowell him keepeth,
And that is Charity the champion, chief help against sin,
For he strengtheth man to stand, and stirreth man's soul,
And though thy body bow, as boatë doth in water,
Aye is thy soulë safe, but if thou wilt thyself
Do a deadly sin, and drenchë[14] so thy soul,
God will suffer well thy sloth, if thyself liketh,
For he gave thee two years' gifts, to teme well thyself,
And that is wit and free-will, to every wight a portion,
To flying fowlës, to fishes, and to beasts,
And man hath most thereof, and most is to blame
But if he work well therewith, as Dowell him teacheth.'
'I have no kind knowing,' quoth I, 'to conceive all your wordës
And if I may live and look, I shall go learnë better;
I beken[15] the Christ, that on the crossë died;'
And I said, 'The samë save you from mischance,
And give you grace on this ground good me to worth.'
And thus I went wide where, walking mine one
By a wide wilderness, and by a woodë's side,
Bliss of the birdës brought me on sleep,
And under a lind[16] on a land, leaned I a stound[17]
To lyth[18] the layës, those lovely fowlës made,
Mirth of their mouthës made me there to sleep.
The marvellousest metelles mettë[19] me then
That ever dreamed wight, in world as I went.
A much man as me thought, and like to myself,
Came and called me, by my kindë[20] namë.
'What art thou,' quod I then, 'thou that my namë knowest?'
'That thou wottest well,' quod he, 'and no wight better.'
'Wot I what thou art?' Thought said he then,
'I have sued[21] thee this seven years, see ye me no rather?'
'Art thou Thought?' quoth I then, 'thou couldest me wyssh[22]
Where that Dowell dwelleth, and do me that to know.'
'Dowell, and Dobetter, and Dobest the third,' quod he,
'Are three fair virtues, and be not far to find,
Whoso is true of his tongue, and of his two handës,
And through his labour or his lod, his livelod winneth,
And is trusty of his tayling,[23] taketh but his own,
And is no drunkelow ne dedigious, Dowell him followeth;
Dobet doth right thus, and he doth much more,
He is as low as a lamb, and lovëly of speech,
And helpeth all men, after that them needeth;
The baggës and the bigirdles, he hath to-broke them all,
That the earl avarous heldë and his heirës,
And thus to mammons many he hath made him friends,
And is run to religion, and hath rend'red[24] the Bible
And preached to the people Saint Paulë's wordës,
Libenter suffertis insipientes, cum sitis ipsi sapientes.

* * * * *

And suffereth the unwise with you for to live,
And with glad will doth he good, for so God you hoteth.[25]
Dobest is above both, and beareth a bishop's cross
Is hooked on that one end to halye[26] men from hell;
A pike is on the potent[27] to pull down the wicked
That waiten any wickedness, Dowell to tene;[28]
And Dowell and Dobet amongst them have ordained
To crown one to be king, to rule them boeth,
That if Dowell and Dobet are against Dobest,
Then shall the king come, and cast them in irons,
And but if Dobest bid for them, they be there for ever.
Thus Dowell and Dobet, and Dobestë the third,
Crowned one to be king, to keepen them all,
And to rule the realmë by their three wittës,
And none otherwise but as they three assented.'
I thanked Thought then, that he me thus taught,
And yet favoureth me not thy suging, I covet to learn
How Dowell, Dobest, and Dobetter do among the people.
'But Wit can wish[29] thee,' quoth Thought, 'where they three dwell,
Else wot I none that can tell that now is alive.'
Thought and I thus, three dayës we yeden[30]
Disputing upon Dowell, dayë after other.
And ere we were 'ware, with Wit 'gan we meet.
He was long and leanë, like to none other,
Was no pride on his apparel, nor poverty neither;
Sad of his semblance, and of soft cheer;
I durst not move no matter, to make him to laugh,
But as I bade Thought then be mean between,
And put forth some purpose to prevent his wits,
What was Dowell from Dobet, and Dobest from them both?
Then Thought in that timë said these wordës;
'Whether Dowell, Dobet, and Dobest be in land,
Here is well would wit, if Wit could teach him,
And whether he be man or woman, this man fain would espy,
And work as they three would, this is his intent.'
'Here Dowell dwelleth,' quod Wit, 'not a day hence,
In a castle that kind[31] made, of four kinds things;
Of earth and air is it made, mingled together
With wind and with water, witterly[32] enjoined;
Kindë hath closed therein, craftily withal,
A leman[33] that he loveth, like to himself,
Anima she hight, and Envy her hateth,
A proud pricker of France, princeps hujus mundi,
And would win her away with wiles and he might;
And Kind knoweth this well, and keepeth her the better.
And doth her with Sir Dowell is duke of these marches;
Dobet is her damosel, Sir Dowell's daughter,
To serve this lady lelly,[34] both late and rathe.[35]
Dobest is above both, a bishop's pere;
That he bids must be done; he ruleth them all.
Anima, that lady, is led by his learning,
And the constable of the castle, that keepeth all the watch,
Is a wise knight withal, Sir Inwit he hight,
And hath five fair sonnës by his first wife,
Sir Seewell and Saywell, and Hearwell-the-end,
Sir Workwell-with-thy-hand, a wight man of strength,
And Sir Godfray Gowell, great lordës forsooth.
These five be set to save this lady Anima,
Till Kind come or send, to save her for ever.'
'What kind thing is Kind,' quod I, 'canst thou me tell?'—
'Kind,' quod Wit, 'is a creator of all kinds things,
Father and former of all that ever was maked,
And that is the great God that 'ginning had never,
Lord of life and of light, of bliss and of pain,
Angels and all thing are at his will,
And man is him most like, of mark and of shape,
For through the word that he spake, wexen forth beasts,
And made Adam, likest to himself one,
And Eve of his ribbë bone, without any mean,
For he was singular himself, and said Faciamus,
As who say more must hereto, than my wordë one,
My might must helpë now with my speech,
Even as a lord should make letters, and he lacked parchment,
Though he could write never so well, if he had no pen,
The letters, for all his lordship, I 'lieve were never ymarked;
And so it seemeth by him, as the Bible telleth,
There he saidë, Dixit et facta sunt.
He must work with his word, and his wit shew;
And in this manner was man made, by might of God Almighty,
With his word and his workmanship, and with life to last,
And thus God gave him a ghost[36] of the Godhead of heaven,
And of his great grace granted him bliss,
And that is life that aye shall last, to all our lineage after;
And that is the castle that Kindë made, Caro it hight,
And is as much to meanë as man with a soul,
And that he wrought with work and with word both;
Through might of the majesty, man was ymaked.
Inwit and Allwits closed been therein,
For love of the lady Anima, that life is nempned.[37]
Over all in man's body, she walketh and wand'reth,
And in the heart is her home, and her most rest,
And Inwit is in the head, and to the heartë looketh,
What Anima is lief or loth,[38] he leadeth her at his will
Then had Wit a wife, was hotë Dame Study,
That leve was of lere, and of liche boeth.
She was wonderly wrought, Wit me so teached,
And all staring, Dame Study sternëly said;
'Well art thou wise,' quoth she to Wit, 'any wisdoms to tell
To flatterers or to foolës, that frantic be of wits;'
And blamed him and banned him, and bade him be still,
With such wisë wordës, to wysh any sots,
And said, 'Noli mittere, man, margaritae, pearls,
Amongë hoggës, that havë hawes at will.
They do but drivel thereon, draff were them lever,[39]
Than all precious pearls that in paradise waxeth.[40]
I say it, by such,' quod she, 'that shew it by their works,
That them were lever[41] land and lordship on earth,
Or riches or rentës, and rest at their will,
Than all the sooth sawës that Solomon said ever.
Wisdom and wit now is not worth a kerse,[42]
But if it be carded with covetise, as clothers kemb their wool;
Whoso can contrive deceits, and conspire wrongs,
And lead forth a lovëday,[43] to let with truth,
He that such craftës can is oft cleped to counsel,
They lead lords with lesings, and belieth truth.
Job the gentle in his gests greatly witnesseth
That wicked men wielden the wealth of this world;
The Psalter sayeth the same, by such as do evil;
Ecce ipsi peccatores abundantes in seculo obtinuerunt divitias.
Lo, saith holy lecture, which lords be these shrewes?
Thilkë that God giveth most, least good they dealeth,
And most unkind be to that comen, that most chattel wieldeth.[44]
Quae perfecisti destrutxerunt, justus autem, &c.
Harlots for their harlotry may have of their goodës,
And japers and juggelers, and janglers of jestës,
And he that hath holy writ aye in his mouth,
And can tell of Tobie, and of the twelve apostles,
Or preach of the penance that Pilate falsely wrought
To Jesu the gentle, that Jewës to-draw:
Little is he loved that such a lesson sheweth;
Or daunten or draw forth, I do it on God himself,
But they that feign they foolës, and with fayting[45] liveth,
Against the lawë of our Lord, and lien on themself,
Spitten and spewen, and speak foulë wordës,
Drinken and drivellen, and do men for to gape,
Liken men, and lie on them, and lendeth them no giftës,
They can[46] no more minstrelsy nor music men to glad,
Than Mundie, the miller, of multa fecit Deus.
Ne were their vile harlotry, have God my truth,
Shouldë never king nor knight, nor canon of Paul's
Give them to their yearë's gift, nor gift of a groat,
And mirth and minstrelsy amongst men is nought;
Lechery, losenchery,[47] and losels' talës,
Gluttony and great oaths, this mirth they loveth,
And if they carpen[48] of Christ, these clerkës and these lewed,
And they meet in their mirth, when minstrels be still,
When telleth they of the Trinity a talë or twain,
And bringeth forth a blade reason, and take Bernard to witness,
And put forth a presumption to prove the sooth,
Thus they drivel at their dais[49] the Deity to scorn,
And gnawen God to their gorge[50] when their guts fallen;
And the careful[51] may cry, and carpen at the gate,
Both a-hunger'd and a-thirst, and for chill[52] quake,
Is none to nymen[53] them near, his noyel[54] to amend,
But hunten him as a hound, and hoten[55] him go hence.
Little loveth he that Lord that lent him all that bliss,
That thus parteth with the poor; a parcel when him needeth
Ne were mercy in mean men, more than in rich;
Mendynauntes meatless[56] might go to bed.
God is much in the gorge of these greatë masters,
And amongës mean men, his mercy and his workës,
And so sayeth the Psalter, I have seen it oft.
Clerks and other kinnes men carpen of God fast,
And have him much in the mouth, and meanë men in heart;
Friars and faitours[57] have founden such questions
To please with the proud men, sith the pestilence time,
And preachen at St Paulë's, for pure envy of clerks,
That folk is not firmed in the faith, nor free of their goods,
Nor sorry for their sinnës, so is pride waxen,
In religion, and in all the realm, amongst rich and poor;
That prayers have no power the pestilence to let,
And yet the wretches of this world are none 'ware by other,
Nor for dread of the death, withdraw not their pride,
Nor be plenteous to the poor, as pure charity would,
But in gains and in gluttony, forglote goods themself,
And breaketh not to the beggar, as the book teacheth.
And the more he winneth, and waxeth wealthy in riches,
And lordeth in landës, the less good he dealeth.
Tobie telleth ye not so, takë heed, ye rich,
How the bible book of him beareth witness;
Whoso hath much, spend manly, so meaneth Tobit,
And whoso little wieldeth, rule him thereafter;
For we have no letter of our life, how long it shall endure.
Suchë lessons lordës shouldë love to hear,
And how he might most meinie, manlich find;
Not to fare as a fiddeler, or a friar to seek feasts,
Homely at other men's houses, and haten their own.
Elenge[58] is the hall every day in the week;
There the lord nor the lady liketh not to sit,
Now hath each rich a rule[59] to eaten by themself
In a privy parlour, for poorë men's sake,
Or in a chamber with a chimney, and leave the chief hall
That was made for mealës men to eat in.'—
And when that Wit was 'ware what Dame Study told,
He became so confuse he cunneth not look,
And as dumb as death, and drew him arear,
And for no carping I could after, nor kneeling to the earth
I might get no grain of his greatë wits,
But all laughing he louted, and looked upon Study,
In sign that I shouldë beseechen her of grace,
And when I was 'ware of his will, to his wife I louted
And said, 'Mercie, madam, your man shall I worth
As long as I live both late and early,
For to worken your will, the while my life endureth,
With this that ye ken me kindly, to know to what is Dowell.'
'For thy meekness, man,' quoth she, 'and for thy mild speech,
I shall ken thee to my cousin, that Clergy is hoten.[60]
He hath wedded a wife within these six moneths,
Is syb[61] to the seven arts, Scripture is her name;
They two as I hope, after my teaching,
Shall wishen thee Dowell, I dare undertake.'
Then was I as fain as fowl of fair morrow,
And gladder than the gleeman that gold hath to gift,
And asked her the highway where that Clergy[62] dwelt.
'And tell me some token,' quoth I, 'for time is that I wend.'
'Ask the highway,' quoth she, 'hencë to suffer
Both well and woe, if that thou wilt learn;
And ride forth by riches, and rest thou not therein,
For if thou couplest ye therewith, to Clergy comest thou never,
And also the likorous land that Lechery hight,
Leave it on thy left half, a largë mile and more,
Till thou come to a court, keep well thy tongue
From leasings and lyther[63] speech, and likorous drinkës,
Then shalt thou see Sobriety, and Simplicity of speech,
That each might be in his will, his wit to shew,
And thus shall ye come to Clergy that can many things;
Say him this sign, I set him to school,
And that I greet well his wife, for I wrote her many books,
And set her to Sapience, and to the Psalter glose;
Logic I learned her, and many other laws,
And all the unisons to music I made her to know;
Plato the poet, I put them first to book,
Aristotle and other more, to argue I taught,
Grammer for girlës, I gard[64] first to write,
And beat them with a bales but if they would learn;
Of all kindës craftës I contrived toolës,
Of carpentry, of carvers, and compassed masons,
And learned them level and line, though I look dim;
And Theology hath tened[65] me seven score timës;
The more I muse therein, the mistier it seemeth,
And the deeper I divine, the darker me it thinketh.

[1] 'Freyned:' inquired. [2] 'Wysh:' inform. [3] 'Lenged:' lived. [4] 'Minors:' the friars minors. [5] 'Halsed them hendely:' saluted them kindly. [6] 'Do me to wit:' make me to know. [7] 'Kinnes:' sorts of. [8] 'Sythes:' times. [9] 'Wyshen:' inform, teach. [10] 'Saddë:' sober, good. [11] 'Forvisne:' similitude. [12] 'Raght:' reach. [13] 'Latches:' laziness. [14] 'Drenchë:' drown. [15] 'Beken:' confess. [16] 'Lind:' lime-tree. [17] 'A stound:' a while. [18] 'Lyth:' listen. [19] 'Mettë:' dreamed. [20] 'Kinde:' own. [21] 'Sued:' sought. [22] 'Wyssh:' inform. [23] 'Tayling:' dealing. [24] 'Rend'red:' translated. [25] 'Hoteth:' biddeth. [26] 'Halve:' draw. [27] 'Potent:' staff. [28] 'Tene:' grieve. [29] 'Wish:' inform. [30] 'Yeden:' went. [31] 'Kind:' nature. [32] 'Witterly:' cunningly. [33] 'Leman:' paramour. [34] 'Lelly:' fair. [35] 'Rathe:' early. [36] 'Ghost:' spirit. [37] 'Nempned:' named. [38] 'Loth:' willing. [39] 'Lever:' rather. [40] 'Waxeth: grow. [41] 'Them were lever:' they had rather. [42] 'Kerse:' curse. [43] 'Lovëday:'lady. [44] 'Wieldeth:' commands. [45] 'Fayting:' deceiving. [46] 'Can:' know. [47] 'Losenchery:' lying. [48] 'Carpen:' speak. [49] 'Dais:' table. [50] 'Gorge:' throat. [51] 'Careful:' poor. [52] 'Chill:' cold. [53] 'Nymen:' take. [54] 'Noye:' trouble. [55] 'Hoten:' order. [56] 'Mendynauntes meatless:' beggars supperless. [57] 'Faitours:' idle fellows. [58] 'Elenge:' strange, deserted. [59] 'Rule:' custom. [60] 'Hoten:' named. [61] 'Syb:' mother. [62] 'Clergy:' learning. [63] 'Lyther:' wanton. [64] 'Gard:' made. [65] 'Tened:' grieved.

COVETOUSNESS.

And then came Covetise; can I him no descrive,
So hungerly and hollow, so sternëly he looked,
He was bittle-browed and baberlipped also;
With two bleared eyen as a blindë hag,
And as a leathern pursë lolled his cheekës,
Well sider than his chin they shivered for cold:
And as a bondman of his bacon his beard was bidrauled,
With a hood on his head, and a lousy hat above.
And in a tawny tabard,[1] of twelve winter age,
Allë torn and baudy, and full of lice creeping;
But that if a louse could have leapen the better,
She had not walked on the welt, so was it threadbare.
'I have been Covetise,' quoth this caitiff,
'For sometime I served Symmë at style,
And was his prentice plight, his profit to wait.
First I learned to lie, a leef other twain
Wickedly to weigh, was my first lesson:
To Wye and to Winchester I went to the fair
With many manner merchandise, as my master me hight.—
Then drave I me among drapers my donet[2] to learn.
To draw the lyfer along, the longer it seemed
Among the rich rays,' &c.

[1] 'Tabard:' a coat. [2] 'Donet:' lesson.

THE PRELATES.

And now is religion a rider, a roamer by the street,
A leader of lovëdays,[1] and a loudë[2] beggar,
A pricker on a palfrey from manor to manor,
An heap of houndës at his arse as he a lord were.
And if but his knave kneel, that shall his cope bring,
He loured on him, and asked who taught him courtesy.

[1] 'Lovëdays:' ladies. [2] 'Loudë:' lewd.

MERCY AND TRUTH.

Out of the west coast, a wench, as methought,
Came walking in the way, to heavenward she looked;
Mercy hight that maidë, a meek thing withal,
A full benign birdë, and buxom of speech;
Her sister, as it seemed, came worthily walking,
Even out of the east, and westward she looked,
A full comely creature, Truth she hight,
For the virtue that her followed afeared was she never.
When these maidens met, Mercy and Truth,
Either asked other of this great marvel,
Of the din and of the darkness, &c.

NATURE, OR KIND, SENDING FORTH HIS DISEASES FROM THE PLANETS, AT THE COMMAND OF CONSCIENCE, AND OF HIS ATTENDANTS, AGE AND DEATH.

Kind Conscience then heard, and came out of the planets,
And sent forth his forriours, Fevers and Fluxes,
Coughës and Cardiacles, Crampës and Toothaches,
Rheumës, and Radgondes, and raynous Scallës,
Boilës, and Botches, and burning Agues,
Phreneses and foul Evil, foragers of Kind!
There was 'Harow! and Help! here cometh Kind,
With Death that is dreadful, to undo us all!'
The lord that liveth after lust then aloud cried.
Age the hoar, he was in the va-ward,
And bare the banner before Death: by right he it claimed.
Kindë came after, with many keenë sorës,
As Pocks and Pestilences, and much people shent.
So Kind through corruptions, killed full many:
Death came driving after, and all to dust pashed
Kings and Kaisers, knightës and popës.
Many a lovely lady, and leman of knights,
Swooned and swelted for sorrow of Death's dints.
Conscience, of his courtesy, to Kind he besought
To cease and sufire, and see where they would
Leave Pride privily, and be perfect Christian,
And Kind ceased then, to see the people amend.

'Piers Plowman' found many imitators. One wrote 'Piers the Plowman's
Crede;' another, 'The Plowman's Tale;' another, a poem on 'Alexander the
Great; 'another, on the 'Wars of the Jews;' and another, 'A Vision of
Death and Life,' extracts from all which may be found in Warton's
'History of English Poetry.'

We close this preliminary essay by giving a very ancient hymn to the Virgin, as a specimen of the once universally-prevalent alliterative poetry.

I.

Hail be you, Mary, mother and may,
Mild, and meek, and merciable;
Hail, folliche fruit of soothfast fay,
Against each strife steadfast and stable;
Hail, soothfast soul in each, a say,
Under the sun is none so able;
Hail, lodge that our Lord in lay,
The foremost that never was founden in fable;
Hail, true, truthful, and tretable,
Hail, chief ychosen of chastity,
Hail, homely, hendy, and amiable:
To pray for us to thy Sonë so free! AVE.

II.

Hail, star that never stinteth light;
Hail, bush burning that never was brent;
Hail, rightful ruler of every right,
Shadow to shield that should be shent;
Hail, blessed be you blossom bright,
To truth and trust was thine intent;
Hail, maiden and mother, most of might,
Of all mischiefs an amendëment;
Hail, spice sprung that never was spent;
Hail, throne of the Trinity;
Hail, scion that God us soon to sent,
You pray for us thy Sonë free! AVE.

III.

Hail, heartily in holiness;
Hail, hope of help to high and low;
Hail, strength and stel of stableness;
Hail, window of heaven wowe;
Hail, reason of righteousness,
To each a caitiff comfort to know;
Hail, innocent of angerness,
Our takel, our tol, that we on trow;
Hail, friend to all that beoth forth flow;
Hail, light of love, and of beauty,
Hail, brighter than the blood on snow:
You pray for us thy Sonë free! AVE.

IV.

Hail, maiden; hail, mother; hail, martyr trew;
Hail, kindly yknow confessour;
Hail, evenere of old law and new;
Hail, builder bold of Christë's bower;
Hail, rose highest of hyde and hue;
Of all fruitë's fairest flower;
Hail, turtle trustiest and true,
Of all truth thou art treasour;
Hail, pured princess of paramour;
Hail, bloom of brere brightest of ble;
Hail, owner of earthly honour:
You pray for us thy Sonë so free! AVE, &c.

V.

Hail, hendy; hail, holy emperess;
Hail, queen courteous, comely, and kind;
Hail, destroyer of every strife;
Hail, mender of every man's mind;
Hail, body that we ought to bless,
So faithful friend may never man find;
Hail, lever and lover of largëness,
Sweet and sweetest that never may swynde;
Hail, botenere[1] of every body blind;
Hail, borgun brightest of all bounty,
Hail, trewore then the wode bynd:
You pray for us thy Sonë so free! AVE.

VI.

Hail, mother; hail, maiden; hail, heaven queen;
Hail, gatus of paradise;
Hail, star of the sea that ever is seen;
Hail, rich, royal, and righteous;
Hail, burde yblessed may you bene;
Hail, pearl of all perrie the pris;
Hail, shadow in each a shower shene;
Hail, fairer than that fleur-de-lis,
Hail, chere chosen that never n'as chis;
Hail, chief chamber of charity;
Hail, in woe that ever was wis:
You pray for us thy Sonë so free! AVE, &c. &c.

[1] 'Botenere:' helper.

ADVERTISEMENT.

It will be observed that, in the specimens given of the earlier poets, the spelling has been modernised on the principle which has been so generally approved in its application to the text of Chaucer and of Spenser.

On a further examination of the material for 'Specimens and Memoirs of the less-known British Poets,' it has been deemed advisable to devote three volumes to this résumé, and merely to give extracts from Cowley, instead of following out the arrangement proposed when the issue for this year was announced. In this space it has been found possible to present the reader with specimens of almost all those authors whose writings were at any period esteemed. The series will thus be rendered more perfect, and will include the complete works of the authors whose entire writings are by a general verdict regarded as worthy of preservation; together with representations of the style, and brief notices of the poets who have, during the progress of our literature, occupied a certain rank, but whose popularity and importance have in a great measure passed.

It is confidently hoped that the arrangements now made will give a completeness to the First Division of the Library Edition of the British Poets—from Chaucer to Cowper—which will be acceptable and satisfactory to the general reader.

Edinburgh, July 1860.

CONTENTS.

* * * * *

FIRST PERIOD.

JOHN GOWER
The Chariot of the Sun
The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets, &c.
Of the Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives from
the Sense of Hearing

JOHN BARBOUR
Apostrophe to Freedom
Death of Sir Henry de Bohun

ANDREW WYNTOUN

BLIND HARRY
Battle of Black-Earnside
The Death of Wallace

JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND
Description of the King's Mistress

JOHN THE CHAPLAIN—THOMAS OCCLEVE

JOHN LYDGATE
Canace, condemned to Death by her Father Aeolus, sends to her guilty
Brother Macareus the last Testimony of her unhappy Passion
The London Lyckpenny

HARDING, KAY, &c.

ROBERT HENRYSON
Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the Country Mouse
The Garment of Good Ladies

WILLIAM DUNBAR
The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell
The Merle and Nightingale

GAVIN DOUGLAS
Morning in May

HAWES, BARCLAY, &c.

SKELTON
To Miss Margaret Hussey

SIR DAVID LYNDSAY
Meldrum's Duel with the English Champion Talbart
Supplication in Contemption of Side Tails

THOMAS TUSSER
Directions for Cultivating a Hop-garden
Housewifely Physic
Moral Reflections on the Wind

VAUX, EDWARDS, &c.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE
Good-morrow
Good-night

THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET
Allegorical Characters from 'The Mirror of Magistrates'
Henry Duke of Buckingham in the Infernal Regions

JOHN HARRINGTON
Sonnet on Isabella Markham
Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
To Sleep
Sonnets

ROBERT SOUTHWELL
Look Home
The Image of Death
Love's Servile Lot
Times go by Turns

THOMAS WATSON
The Nymphs to their May-Queen
Sonnet

THOMAS TURBERVILLE
In praise of the renowned Lady Aime, Countess of Warwick

UNKNOWN
Harpalus' Complaint of Phillida's Love bestowed on Corin, who loved
her not, and denied him that loved her
A Praise of his Lady
That all things sometime find Ease of their Pain, save only the Lover
From 'The Phoenix' Nest'
From the same
The Soul's Errand

* * * * *

SECOND PERIOD.

FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT
To Ben Jonson
On the Tombs in Westminster
An Epitaph

SIR WALTER RALEIGH
The Country's Recreations
The Silent Lover
A Vision upon 'The Fairy Queen'
Love admits no Rival

JOSHUA SYLVESTER
To Religion
On Man's Resemblance to God
The Chariot of the Sun

RICHARD BARNFIELD
Address to the Nightingale

ALEXANDER HUME
Thanks for a Summer's Day

OTHER SCOTTISH POETS

SAMUEL DANIEL
Richard II., the morning before his Murder in Pomfret Castle
Early Love
Selections from Sonnets

SIR JOHN DAVIES
Introduction to the Poem on the Soul of Man
The Self-subsistence of the Soul
Spirituality of the Soul

GILES FLETCHER
The Nativity
Song of Sorceress seeking to tempt Christ
Close of 'Christ's Victory and Triumph'

JOHN DONNE
Holy Sonnets
The Progress of the Soul

MICHAEL DRAYTON
Description of Morning

EDWARD FAIRFAX
Rinaldo at Mount Olivet

SIR HENRY WOTTON
Farewell to the Vanities of the World
A Meditation

RICHARD CORBET
Dr Corbet's Journey into France

BEN JONSON
Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke
The Picture of the Body
To Penshurst
To the Memory of my beloved Master, William Shakspeare, and what
he hath left us
On the Portrait of Shakspeare

VERE, STORBER, &c

THOMAS RANDOLPH
The Praise of Woman
To my Picture
To a Lady admiring herself in a Looking-glass

ROBERT BURTON
On Melancholy

THOMAS CAREW
Persuasions to Love
Song
To my Mistress sitting by a River's Side
Song
A Pastoral Dialogue
Song

SIR JOHN SUCKLING
Song
A Ballad upon a Wedding
Song

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT
Love's Darts
On the Death of Sir Bevil Grenville
A Valediction

WILLIAM BROWNE
Song
Song
Power of Genius over Envy
Evening
From 'Britannia's Pastorals'
A Descriptive Sketch

WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING
Sonnet

WILLIAM DRUMMOND
The River of Forth Feasting
Sonnets
Spiritual Poems

PHINEAS FLETCHER
Description of Parthenia
Instability of Human Greatness
Happiness of the Shepherd's Life
Marriage of Christ and the Church

* * * * *

SPECIMENS, WITH MEMOIRS, OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

JOHN GOWER

Very little is told us (as usual in the beginnings of a literature) of the life and private history of Gower, and that little is not specially authentic or clearly consistent with itself. His life consists mainly of a series of suppositions, with one or two firm facts between—like a few stepping-stones insulated in wide spaces of water. He is said to have been born about the year 1325, and if so must have been a few years older than Chaucer; whom he, however, outlived. He was a friend as well as contemporary of that great poet, who, in the fifth book of his 'Troilus and Cresseide,' thus addresses him:—

'O moral Gower, this bookë I direct,
To thee and the philosophical Strood,
To vouchsafe where need is to correct,
Of your benignities and zealës good.'

Gower, on the other hand, in his 'Confessio Amantis,' through the mouth of Venus, speaks as follows of Chaucer:—

'And greet well Chaucer when ye meet,
As my disciple and my poët;
For 'in the flower of his youth,
In sundry wise, as he well couth,
Of ditties and of songës glad,
The whichë for my sake he made,
The laud fulfill'd is over all,' &c.

The place of Gower's birth has been the subject of much controversy. Caxton asserts that he was a native of Wales. Leland, Bales, Pits, Hollingshed, and Edmondson contend, on the other hand, that he belonged to the Statenham family, in Yorkshire. In proof of this, a deed is appealed to, which is preserved among the ancient records of the Marquis of Stafford. To this deed, of which the local date is Statenham, and the chronological 1346, one of the subscribing witnesses is John Gower who on the back of the deed is stated, in the handwriting of at least a century later, to be 'Sr John Gower the Poet'. Whatever may be thought of this piece of evidence, 'the proud tradition,' adds Todd, who had produced it, 'in the Marquis of Stafford's family has been, and still is, that the poet was of Statenham; and who would not consider the dignity of his genealogy augmented by enrolling among its worthies the moral Gower?'

From his will we know that he possessed the manor of Southwell, in the county of Nottingham, and that of Multon, in the county of Suffolk. He was thus a rich man, as well as probably a knight. The latter fact is inferred from the circumstance of his effigies in the church of St Mary Overies wearing a chaplet of roses, such as, says Francis Thynne, 'the knyghtes in old time used, either of gold or other embroiderye, made after the fashion of roses, one of the peculiar ornamentes of a knighte, as well as his collar of S.S.S., his guilte sword and spurres. Which chaplett or circle of roses was as well attributed to knyghtes, the lowest degree of honor, as to the higher degrees of duke, erle, &c., being knyghtes, for so I have seen John of Gaunte pictured in his chaplett of roses; and King, Edwarde the Thirde gave his chaplett to Eustace Rybamonte; only the difference was, that as they were of lower degree, so had they fewer roses placed on their chaplett or cyrcle of golde, one ornament deduced from the dukes crowne, which had the roses upon the top of the cyrcle, when the knights had them only upon the cyrcle or garlande itself.'

It has been said that Gower as well as Chaucer studied in the Temple. This, however, Thynne doubts, on the ground that 'it is most certeyn to be gathered by cyrcumstances of recordes that the lawyers were not in the Temple until towardes the latter parte of the reygne of Kinge Edwarde the Thirde, at whiche tyme Chaucer was a grave manne, holden in greate credyt and employed in embassye;' and when, of course, Gower, being his senior, must have been 'graver' still.

There is scarcely anything more to relate of the personal career of our poet. In his elder days he became attached to the House of Lancaster, under Thomas of Woodstock, as Chaucer did under John of Gaunt. It is said that the two poets, who had been warm friends, at last quarrelled, but obscurity rests on the cause, the circumstances, the duration, and the consequences of the dispute. Gower, like some far greater bards, —Milton for instance, and those whom Milton has commemorated,

'Blind Thamyris and blind Moeonides,
And Tiresiaa and Phineus, prophets old,'—

was sometime ere his death deprived of his sight, as we know on his own authority. It appears from his will that he was still living in 1408, having outlived Chaucer eight years. This will is a curious document. It is that of a very rich and very superstitious Catholic, who leaves bequests to churches, hospitals, to priors, sub-priors, and priests, with the significant request 'ut orent pro me'—a request which, for the sake of the poor soul of the 'moral Gower,' was we trust devoutly obeyed, although we are irresistibly reminded of the old rhyme,

'Pray for the soul of Gabriel John,
Who died in the year one thousand and one;
You may if you please, or let it alone,
For it's all one
To Gabriel John,
Who died in the year one thousand and one.'

There is no mention of children in the will, and hence the assertion of Edmondson, who, in his genealogical table of the Statenham family, says that Thomas Gower, the governor of the castle of Mans in the times of the Fifth and Sixth Henrys, was the only son of the poet, and that of Glover, who, in his 'Visitation of Yorkshire,' describes Gower as married to a lady named Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edward Sadbowrughe, Baron of the Exchequer, by whom he had five sons and three daughters, must both fall to the ground. According to the will, Gower's wife's name was Agnes, and he leaves to her £100 in legacy, besides his valuable goods and the rents accruing from his aforesaid manors of Multon, in Suffolk, and Southwell, in Nottinghamshire. His body was, according to his own direction, buried in the monastery of St Mary Overies, in Southwark, (afterwards the church of St Saviour,) where a monument, and an effigies, too, were erected, with the roses of a knight girdling the brow of one who was unquestionably a true, if not a great poet.

In Warton's 'History of English Poetry,' and in the 'Illustrations of the Lives and Writings of Gower and Chaucer' by Mr Todd, there will be found ample and curious details about MS. poems by Gower, such as fifty sonnets in French; a 'Panegyrick on Henry IV.,' half in Latin and half in English, a short elegiac poem on the same subject, &c.; besides a large work, entitled 'Speculum Meditantis,' a poem in French of a moral cast; and 'Vox Clamantis,' consisting of seven books of Latin elegiacs, and chiefly filled with a metrical account of the insurrections of the Commons in the reign of Richard II. In the dedication of this latter work to Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, Gower speaks of his blindness and his age. He says, 'Hanc epistolam subscriptam corde devoto misit senex et cecus Johannes Gower reverendissimo in Christo patri ac domino suo precipuo domino Thome de Arundell, Cantuar. Archiepö.' &c. Warton proves that the 'Vox Clamantis' was written in the year 1397, by a line in the Bodleian manuscript of the poem, 'Hos ego bis deno Ricardo regis in anno.' Richard II. began, it is well known, to reign in the year 1377, when ten years of age, and, of course, the year 1397 was the twentieth of his reign. It follows from this, that for eleven years at least before his death Gower had been senex et cecus, helpless through old age and blindness.

The 'Confessio Amantis' is the only work of Gower's which is printed and in English. The rest are still slumbering in MS.; and even although the 'Vox Clamantis' should put in a sleepy plea for the resurrection of print, on the whole we are disposed to say, better for all parties that it and the rest should slumber on. But the 'Confessio Amantis' is altogether a remarkable production. It is said to have been written at the command of Richard II., who, meeting our poet rowing on the Thames, near London, took him on board the royal barge, and requested him to book some new thing. It is an English poem, in eight books, and was first printed by Caxton in the year 1483. The 'Speculum Meditantis,' 'Vox Clamantis,' and 'Confessio Amantis,' are, properly speaking, parts of one great work, and are represented by three volumes upon Gower's curious tomb in the old conventual church of St Mary Overies already alluded to—a church, by the way, which the poet himself assisted in rebuilding in the elegant shape which it retains to this day.

The 'Confessio' is a large unwieldy collection of poetry and prose, superstition and science, love and religion, allegory and historical facts. It is crammed with all varieties of learning, and a perverse but infinite ingenuity is shewn in the arrangement of its heterogeneous materials. In one book the whole mysteries of the Hermetic philosophy are expounded, and the wonders of alchymy dazzle us in every page. In another, the poet scales the heights and sounds the depths of Aristotelianism. From this we have extracted in the 'Specimens' a glowing account of 'The Chariot of the Sun.' Throughout the work, tales and stories of every description and degree of merit are interspersed. These are principally derived from an old book called 'Pantheon; or, Memoriae Seculorum,'—a kind of universal history, more studious of effect than accuracy, in which the author ranges over the whole history of the world, from the creation down to the year 1186. This was a specimen of a kind of writing in which the Middle Ages abounded—namely, chronicles, which gradually superseded the monkish legends, and for a time eclipsed the classics themselves; a kind of writing hovering between history and fiction, embracing the widest sweep, written in a barbarous style, and swarming with falsehoods; but exciting, interesting, and often instructive, and tending to kindle curiosity, and create in the minds of their readers a love for literature.

Besides chronicles, Gower had read many romances, and alludes to them in various parts of his works. His 'Confessio Amantis' was apparently written after Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide,' and after 'The Flower and the Leaf,' inasmuch as he speaks of the one and imitates the other in that poem. That Chaucer had not, however, yet composed his 'Testament of Love,' appears from the epilogue to the 'Confessio,' where Gower is ordered by Venus, who expresses admiration of Chaucer for the early devotion of his muse to her service, to say to him at the close—

'Forthy, now in his daies old,
Thou shalt him tell this message,
That he upon his later age
To set an end of all his work,
As he which is mine owen clerk,
Do make his Testament of Love,
As thou hast done thy shrift above,
So that my court it may record'—

the 'shrift' being of course the 'Confessio Amantis.' In 'The Canterbury
Tales' there are several indications that Chaucer was indebted to Gower
—'The Man of Law's Tale' being borrowed from Gower's 'Constantia,' and
'The Wife of Bath's Tale' being founded on Gower's 'Florent.'

After all, Gower cannot be classed with the greater bards. He sparkles brightly chiefly from the depth of the darkness through which he shines. He is more remarkable for extent than for depth, for solidity than for splendour, for fuel than for fire, for learning than for genius.

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN.

Of goldë glist'ring spoke and wheel
The Sun his cart hath fair and wele,
In which he sitteth, and is croned[1]
With bright stonës environed:
Of which if that I speakë shall,
There be before in special
Set in the front of his corone
Three stones, whichë no person
Hath upon earth; and the first is
By name cleped Leucachatis.
That other two cleped thus
Astroites and Ceraunus;
In his corone, and also behind,
By oldë bookës as I find,
There be of worthy stonës three,
Set each of them in his degree.
Whereof a crystal is that one,
Which that corone is set upon:
The second is an adamant:
The third is noble and evenant,
Which cleped is Idriades.
And over this yet natheless,
Upon the sidës of the werk,
After the writing of the clerk,
There sitten fivë stones mo.[2]
The Smaragdine is one of tho,[3]
Jaspis, and Eltropius,
And Vendides, and Jacinctus.
Lo thus the corone is beset,
Whereof it shineth well the bet.[4]
And in such wise his light to spread,
Sits with his diadem on head,
The Sunnë shining in his cart:
And for to lead him swith[5] and smart,
After the bright dayë's law,
There be ordained for to draw,
Four horse his chare, and him withal,
Whereof the namës tell I shall.
Eritheus the first is hote,[6]
The which is red, and shineth hot;
The second Acteos the bright;
Lampes the thirdë courser hight;
And Philogens is the ferth,
That bringen light unto this earth,
And go so swift upon the heaven,
In four and twenty hourës even,
The cartë with the brightë sun
They drawen, so that over run
They have under the circles high,
All middë earth in such an hie.[7]

And thus the sun is over all
The chief planet imperial,
Above him and beneath him three.
And thus between them runneth he,
As he that hath the middle place
Among the seven: and of his face
Be glad all earthly creatures,
And taken after the natures
Their ease and recreation.
And in his constellation
Who that is born in special,
Of good-will and of liberal
He shall be found in allë place,
And also stand in muchel grace
Toward the lordës for to serve,
And great profit and thank deserve.

And over that it causeth yet
A man to be subtil of wit,
To work in gold, and to be wise
In everything, which is of prise.[8]
But for to speaken in what coast
Of all this earth he reigneth most,
As for wisdom it is in Greece,
Where is appropred thilk spece.[9]

[1] 'Croned:' crowned. [2] 'Mo:' more. [3] 'Tho:' those. [4] 'Bet:' better. [5] 'Swith:' swift. [6] 'Hot:' named. [7] 'Hie:' haste. [8] 'Prise:' value. [9] 'Thilk spece:' that kind.

THE TALE OF THE COFFERS OR CASKETS, &c.

In a chroniquë thus I read:
About a kingë, as must need,
There was of knightës and squiers
Great rout, and ekë officers:
Some of long timë him had served,
And thoughten that they have deserved
Advancëment, and gone without:
And some also been of the rout,
That comen but a while agon,
And they advanced were anon.

These oldë men upon this thing,
So as they durst, against the king
Among themselves complainen oft:
But there is nothing said so soft,
That it ne cometh out at last:
The king it wist, anon as fast,
As he which was of high prudence:
He shope[1] therefore an evidence
Of them that 'plainen in the case
To know in whose default it was:
And all within his own intent,
That none more wistë what it meant.
Anon he let two coffers make,
Of one semblànce, and of one make,
So like, that no life thilkë throw,[2]
The one may from that other know:
They were into his chamber brought,
But no man wot why they be wrought,
And natheless the king hath bede
That they be set in privy stede,[3]
As he that was of wisdom sly;
When he thereto his timë sih,[4]
All privily that none it wist,
His ownë handës that one chest
Of fine gold, and of fine perrie,[5]
The which out of his treasury
Was take, anon he filled full;
That other coffer of straw and mull,[6]
With stonës meynd[7] he fill'd also:
Thus be they full bothë two.
So that erliche[8] upon a day
He bade within, where he lay,
There should be before his bed
A board up set and fairë spread:
And then he let the coffers fet[9]
Upon the board, and did them set,
He knew the namës well of tho,[10]
The which against him grutched[11] so,
Both of his chamber, and of his hall,
Anon and sent for them all;
And saidë to them in this wise:

'There shall no man his hap despise:
I wot well ye have longë served,
And God wot what ye have deserved;
But if it is along[12] on me
Of that ye unadvanced be,
Or else if it be long on yow,
The soothë shall be proved now:
To stoppë with your evil word,
Lo! here two coffers on the board;
Choose which you list of bothë two;
And witteth well that one of tho
Is with treasure so full begon,
That if he happë thereupon
Ye shall be richë men for ever:
Now choose and take which you is lever,[13]
But be well 'ware ere that ye take,
For of that one I undertake
There is no manner good therein,
Whereof ye mighten profit win.
Now go together of one assent,
And taketh your advisëment;
For but I you this day advance,
It stands upon your ownë chance,
All only in default of grace;
So shall be shewed in this place
Upon you all well afine,[14]
That no defaultë shall be mine.'

They kneelen all, and with one voice
The king they thanken of this choice:
And after that they up arise,
And go aside and them advise,
And at lastë they accord
(Whereof their talë to record
To what issue they be fall)
A knight shall speakë for them all:
He kneeleth down unto the king,
And saith that they upon this thing,
Or for to win, or for to lose,
Be all advised for to choose.

Then took this knight a yard[15] in hand,
And go'th there as the coffers stand,
And with assent of every one
He lay'th his yardë upon one,
And saith the king[16] how thilkë same
They chose in reguerdon[17] by name,
And pray'th him that they might it have.

The king, which would his honour save,
When he had heard the common voice,
Hath granted them their ownë choice,
And took them thereupon the key;
But for he wouldë it were see
What good they have as they suppose,
He bade anon the coffer unclose,
Which was fulfill'd with straw and stones:
Thus be they served all at ones.

This king then in the samë stede,
Anon that other coffer undede,
Where as they sawen great richés,
Well morë than they couthen [18] guess.

'Lo!' saith the king, 'now may ye see
That there is no default in me;
Forthy[19] myself I will acquite,
And beareth ye your ownë wite[20]
Of that fortune hath you refused.'

Thus was this wisë king excused:
And they left off their evil speech.
And mercy of their king beseech.

[1] 'Shope:' contrived. [2] 'Thilkë throw:' at that time. [3] 'Stede:' place. [4] 'Sih:' saw. [5] 'Perrie:' precious stones. [6] 'Mull:' rubbish. [7] 'Meynd:' mingled. [8] 'Erlich:' early. [9] 'Fet:' fetched. [10] 'Tho:' those. [11] 'Grutched:' murmured. [12] 'Along:' because of. [13] 'Lever:' preferable. [14] 'Afine:' at last. [15] 'Yard:' rod. [16] 'Saith the king:' saith to the king. [17] 'Reguerdon:' as their reward. [18] 'Couthen:' could. [19] 'Forthy:' therefore. [20] 'Wite:' blame.

OF THE GRATIFICATION WHICH THE LOVERS PASSION RECEIVES FROM THE SENSE OF HEARING.

Right as mine eyë with his look
Is to mine heart a lusty cook
Of lovë's foodë delicate;
Right so mine ear in his estate,
Where as mine eyë may nought serve,
Can well mine heartë's thank deserve;
And feeden him, from day to day,
With such dainties as he may.

For thus it is that, over all
Where as I come in special,
I may hear of my lady price:[1]
I hear one say that she is wise;
Another saith that she is good;
And some men say of worthy blood
That she is come; and is also
So fair that nowhere is none so:
And some men praise her goodly chere.[2]
Thus everything that I may hear,
Which soundeth to my lady good,
Is to mine ear a lusty food.
And eke mine ear hath, over this,
A dainty feastë when so is
That I may hear herselvë speak;
For then anon my fast I break
On suchë wordës as she saith,
That full of truth and full of faith
They be, and of so good disport,
That to mine earë great comfórt
They do, as they that be delices
For all the meats, and all the spices,
That any Lombard couthë[3] make,
Nor be so lusty for to take,
Nor so far forth restoratif,
(I say as for mine ownë life,)
As be the wordës of her mouth
For as the windës of the south
Be most of allë debonaire;[4]
So, when her list to speakë fair,
The virtue of her goodly speech
Is verily mine heartë's leech.

And if it so befall among,
That she carol upon a song,
When I it hear, I am so fed,
That I am from myself so led
As though I were in Paradise;
For, certes, as to mine avìs,[5]
When I hear of her voice the steven,[6]
Methink'th it is a bliss of heaven.

And eke in other wise also,
Full oftë time it falleth so,
Mine carë with a good pitànce[7]
Is fed of reading of romance
Of Ydoine and of Amadas,
That whilom weren in my case;
And eke of other many a score,
That loveden long ere I was bore.
For when I of their lovës read,
Mine eare with the tale I feed,
And with the lust of their histoire
Sometime I draw into memoire,
How sorrow may not ever last;
And so hope cometh in at last.

[1] 'Price:' praise. [2] 'Chere:' mien. [3] 'Couthë:' knows to. [4] 'Debonaire:' gentle. [5] 'Avis:' opinion. [6] 'Steven:' sound. [7] 'Pitance:' allowance.

JOHN BARBOUR.

The facts known about this Scottish poet are only the following. He seems to have been born about the year 1316, in, probably, the city of Aberdeen. This is stated by Hume of Godscroft, by Dr Mackenzie, and others, but is not thoroughly authenticated. Some think he was the son of one Andrew Barbour, who possessed a tenement in Castle Street, Aberdeen; and others, that he was related to one Robert Barbour, who, in 1309, received a charter of the lands of Craigie, in Forfarshire, from King Robert the Bruce. These, however, are mere conjectures, founded upon a similarity of name. It is clear, from Barbour's after rank in the Church, that he had received a learned education, but whether in Arbroath or Aberdeen is uncertain. We know, however, that a school of divinity and canon law had existed at Aberdeen since the reign of Alexander II., and it is conjectured that Barbour first studied there, and then at Oxford. In the year 1357, he was undoubtedly Archdeacon of Aberdeen, since we find him, under this title, nominated by the Bishop of that diocese, one of the Commissioners appointed to meet in Edinburgh to take measures to liberate King David, who had been captured at the battle of Nevil's Cross, and detained from that date in England. It seems evident, from the customs of the Roman Catholic Church, that he must have been at least forty when he was created Archdeacon, and this is a good reason for fixing his birth in the year 1316.

In the same year, Barbour obtained permission from Edward III., at the request of the Scottish King, to travel through England with three scholars who were to study at Oxford, probably at Balliol College, which had, a hundred years nearly before, been founded and endowed by the wife of the famous John Balliol of Scotland. Some years afterwards, in November 1364, he got permission to pass, accompanied by four horsemen, through England, to pursue his studies at the same renowned university. In the year 1365, we find another casual notice of our Scottish bard. A passport has been found giving him permission from the King of England to travel, in company with six horsemen, through that country on their way to St Denis', and other sacred places. It is evident that this was a religious pilgrimage on the part of Barbour and his companions.

A most peripatetic poet; verily, he must have been; for we find another safe-conduct, dated November 1368, granted by Edward to Barbour, permitting him, to pass through England, with two servants and their horses, on his way to France, for the purpose of pursuing his studies there. Dr Jamieson (see his 'Life of Barbour') discovers the poet's name in the list of Auditors of the Exchequer.

Barbour has himself told us that he commenced his poem in the 'yer of grace, a thousand thre hundyr sevynty and five,' when, of course, he was in his sixtieth year, or, as he says, 'off hys eld sexty.' It is supposed that David II.—who died in 1370—had urged Barbour to engage in the work, which was not, however, completed till the fifth year of his successor, Robert II., who gave our poet a pension on account of it. This consisted of a sum of ten pounds Scots from the revenues of the city of Aberdeen, and twenty shillings from the burgh mails. Mr James Bruce, to whose interesting Life of Barbour, in his 'Eminent Men of Aberdeen,' we are indebted for many of the facts in this narrative, says, 'The latter of these sums was granted to him, not merely during his own life, but to his assignees; and the Archdeacon bequeathed it to the dean, canons, the chapter, and other ministers of the Cathedral of Aberdeen, on condition that they should for ever celebrate a yearly mass for his soul. At the Reformation, when it came to be discovered that masses did no good to souls in the other world, it is probable that this endowment reverted to the Crown.'

Barbour also wrote a poem under what seems now the strange title, 'The Brute.' This was in reality a metrical history of Scotland, commencing with the fables concerning Brutus, or 'Brute,' who, according to ancient legends, was the great-grandson of Aeneas—came over from Italy, the land of his birth—landed at Totness, in Devonshire—destroyed the giants who then inhabited Albion—called the island 'Britain' from his own name, and became its first monarch. From this original fable, Barbour is supposed to have wandered on through a hundred succeeding stories of similar value, till he came down to his own day. There can be little regret felt, therefore, that the book is totally lost. Wynton, in his 'Chronicle,' refers to it in commendatory terms; but it cannot be ascertained from his notices whether it was composed in Scotch or in Latin.

Barbour died about the beginning of the year 1396, eighty years of age. Lord Hailes ascertained the time of his death from the Chartulary of Aberdeen, where, under the date of 10th August 1398, mention is made of 'quondam Joh. Barber, Archidiaconus, Aberd., and where it is said that he had died two years and a half before, namely, in 1396.'

His great work, 'The Bruce,' or more fully, 'The History of Robert Bruce, King of the Scots,' does not appear to have been printed till 1616 in Edinburgh. Between that date and the year 1790, when Pinkerton's edition appeared, no less than twenty impressions were published, (the principal being those of Edinburgh in 1620 and 1648; Glasgow, 1665; and Edinburgh, 1670—all in black letter,) so popular immediately became the poem. Pinkerton's edition is in three volumes, and has a preface, notes, and a glossary, all of considerable value. The MS. was copied from a volume in the Advocates' Library, of the date of 1489, which was in the handwriting of one John Ramsay, believed to have been the prior of a Carthusian monastery near Perth. Pinkerton first divided 'The Bruce' into books. It had previously, like the long works of Naerius and Ennius, the earliest Roman poets, consisted of one entire piece, woven 'from the top to the bottom without seam,' like the ancient simple garments in Jewry. The late respectable and very learned Dr Jamieson, of Nicolson Street United Secession Church, Edinburgh, well known as the author of the 'Scottish Dictionary,' 'Hermes Scythicus,' &c., published, in 1820, a more accurate edition of 'The Bruce,' along with Blind Harry's 'Wallace,' in two quarto volumes.

In strict chronology Barbour belongs to an earlier date than Chaucer, having been born and having died a few years before him. But as the first Scotch poet who has written anything of length, with the exception of the author of the 'Romance of Sir Tristrem,' he claims a conspicuous place in our 'Specimens.' He was singularly fortunate in the choice of a subject. With the exception of Wallace, there is no name in Scottish history that even yet calls up prouder associations than that of Robert Bruce. The incidents in his history,—the escape he made from English bondage to rescue his country from the same yoke; his rise refulgent from the stroke which, in the cloisters of the Gray Friars, Dumfries, laid the Red Comyn low; his daring to be crowned at Scone; his frequent defeats; his lion-like retreat to the Hebrides, accompanied by one or two friends, his wife meanwhile having been carried captive, three of his brothers hanged, and himself supposed to be dead; the romantic perils he survived, and the victories he gained amidst the mountains where the deep waters of the river Awe are still telling of his name, and the echoes of Ben Cruachan repeating the immortal sound; his sudden reappearance on the west coast of Scotland, where, as he 'shook his Carrick spear,' his country rose, kindling around him like heather on flame; the awful suspense of the hour when it was announced that Edward I., the tyrant of the Ragman's Roll, the murderer of Wallace, was approaching with a mighty army to crush the revolt; the electrifying news that he had died at Sark, as if struck by the breath of the fatal Border, which he had reached, but could not overpass; the bloody summer's day of Bannockburn, in which Edward II. was repelled, and the gallant army of his father annihilated; the energy and wisdom of the Bruce's civil administration after the victory; the less famous, but noble battle of Byland, nine years after Bannockburn, in which he again smote the foes of his country; and the recognition which at last he procured, on the accession of Edward III., of the independence of Scotland in 1329, himself dying the same year, his work done and his glory for ever secured,—not to speak of the beautiful legends which have clustered round his history like ivy round an ancestral tower—of the spider on the wall, teaching him the lesson of perseverance, as he lay in the barn sad and desponding in heart—of the strange signal-light upon the shore near his maternal castle of Turnberry, which led him to land, while

'Dark red the heaven above it glow'd,
Dark red the sea beneath it flow'd,
Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim,
In blood-red light her islets swim,
Wild screams the dazzled sea-fowl gave,
Dropp'd from their crags a plashing wave,
The deer to distant covert drew,
The blackcock deem'd it day, and crew;'

and last, not least, the adventures of his gallant, unquenchable heart, when, in the hand of Douglas,—meet casket for such a gem!—it marched onwards, as it was wont to do, in conquering power, toward the Holy Land;—all this has woven a garland round the brow of Bruce which every civilised nation has delighted to honour, and given him besides a share in the affections and the pride of his own land, with the joy of which 'no stranger can intermeddle.'

Bruce has been fortunate in his laureates, consisting of three of Scotland's greatest poets,—Barbour, Scott, and Burns. The last of these has given us a glimpse of the patriot-king, revealing him on the brow of Bannockburn as by a single flash of lightning. The second has, in 'The Lord of the Isles,' seized and sung a few of the more romantic passages of his history. But Barbour has, with unwearied fidelity and no small force, described the whole incidents of Bruce's career, and reared to his memory, not an insulated column, but a broad and deep-set temple of poetry.

Barbour's poem has always been admired for its strict accuracy of statement, to which Bower, Wynton, Hailes, Pinkerton, Jamieson, and Sir Walter Scott all bear testimony; for the picturesque force of its natural descriptions; for its insight into character, and the lifelike spirit of its individual sketches; for the martial vigour of its battle- pictures; for the enthusiasm which he feels, and makes his reader feel, for the valiant and wise, the sagacious and persevering, the bold, merciful, and religious character of its hero, and for the piety which pervades it, and proves that the author was not merely a churchman in profession, but a Christian at heart. Its defects of rude rhythm, irregular constructions, and obsolete phraseology, are those of its age; but its beauties, its unflagging interest, and its fine poetic spirit, are characteristic of the writer's own genius.

APOSTROPHE TO FREEDOM.

Ah! freedom is a noble thing!
Freedom makes man to have liking!
Freedom all solace to man gives:
He lives at ease that freely lives!
A noble heart may have none ease,
Nor nought else that may him please,
If freedom fail; for free liking
Is yearned o'er all other thing.
Nay, he that aye has lived free,
May not know well the property,
The anger, nor the wretched doom,
That is coupled to foul thirldom.
But if he had assayed it,
Then all perquier[1] he should it wit:
And should think freedom more to prize
Than all the gold in world that is.

[1] 'Perquier:' perfectly.

DEATH OF SIR HENRY DE BOHUN.

And when the king wist that they were
In hale[1] battle, coming so near,
His battle gart[2] he well array.
He rode upon a little palfrey,
Laughed and jolly, arrayand
His battle, with an axe in hand.
And on his bassinet he bare
A hat of tyre above aye where;
And, thereupon, into tok'ning,
An high crown, that he was king.
And when Gloster and Hereford were
With their battle approaching near,
Before them all there came ridand,
With helm on head and spear in hand,
Sir Henry the Bohun, the worthy,
That was a wight knight, and a hardy,
And to the Earl of Hereford cousin;
Armed in armis good and fine;
Came on a steed a bowshot near,
Before all other that there were:
And knew the king, for that he saw
Him so range his men on raw,[3]
And by the crown that was set
Also upon his bassinet.
And toward him he went in hy.[4]
And the king so apertly[5]
Saw him come, forouth[6] all his feres,[7]
In hy till him the horse he steers.
And when Sir Henry saw the king
Come on, forouten[8] abasing,
To him he rode in full great hy.
He thought that he should well lightly
Win him, and have him at his will,
Since he him horsed saw so ill.
Sprent they samen into a lyng;[9]
Sir Henry miss'd the noble king;
And he that in his stirrups stood,
With the axe, that was hard and good,
With so great main, raucht[10] him a dint,
That neither hat nor helm might stint
The heavy dush that he him gave,
The head near to the harns[11] he clave.
The hand-axe shaft frushit[12] in two;
And he down to the yird[13] 'gan go
All flatlings, for him failed might.
This was the first stroke of the fight,
That was performed doughtily.
And when the king's men so stoutly
Saw him, right at the first meeting,
Forouten doubt or abasing,
Have slain a knight so at a straik,
Such hardment thereat 'gan they take,
That they come on right hardily.
When Englishmen saw them so stoutly
Come on, they had great abasing;
And specially for that the king
So smartly that good knight has slain,
That they withdrew them everilk ane,
And durst not one abide to fight:
So dread they for the king his might.
When that the king repaired was,
That gart his men all leave the chase,
The lordis of his company
Blamed him, as they durst, greatumly,
That be him put in aventure,
To meet so stith[14] a knight, and stour,
In such point as he then was seen.
For they said, well it might have been
Cause of their tynsal[15] everilk ane.
The king answer has made them nane,
But mainit[16] his hand-axe shaft so
Was with the stroke broken in two.

[1] 'Hale:' whole. [2] 'Gart:' caused. [3] 'Haw:' row [4] 'Hy:' haste [5] 'Apertly:' openly, clearly. [6] 'Forouth:' beyond. [7] 'Feres:' companions. [8] 'Forouten:' without. [9] 'Sprent they samen into a lyng:' they sprang forward at once, against each other, in a line. [10] 'Raucht:' reached. [11] 'Harns:' brains. [12] 'Frushit:' broke. [13] 'Yird:' earth. [14] 'Stith:' strong. [15] 'Tynsal:' destruction. [16] 'Mainit:' lamented.

ANDREW WYNTOUN.

This author, who was prior of St Serf's monastery in Loch Leven, is the author of what he calls 'An Orygynale Cronykil of Scotland.' It appeared about the year 1420. It is much inferior to the work of Barbour in poetry, but is full of historical information, anecdote, and legend. The language is often sufficiently prosaic. Thus the poet begins to describe the return of King David II. from his captivity, referred to above.

'Yet in prison was king Davy,
And when a lang time was gane bye,
Frae prison and perplexitie
To Berwick castle brought was he,
With the Earl of Northamptoun,
For to treat there of his ransoun;
Some lords of Scotland come there,
And als prelates that wisest were,' &c.

Contemporary, or nearly so, with Wyntoun were several other Scottish writers, such as one Hutcheon, of whom we know only that he is designated of the 'Awle Ryall,' or of the Royal Hall or Palace, and that he wrote a metrical romance, of which two cantos remain, called 'The Gest of Arthur;' and another, named Clerk of Tranent, the author of a romance, entitled 'The Adventures of Sir Gawain.' Of this latter also two cantos only are extant. Although not perhaps deserving to have even portions of them extracted, they contain a good deal of poetry. A person, too, of the name of Holland, about whose history we have no information, produced a satirical poem, called 'The Howlate,' written in the allegorical form, and bearing some resemblance to 'Pierce Plowman's Vision.'

BLIND HARRY.

Although there are diversities of opinion as to the exact time when this blind minstrel flourished, we prefer alluding to him at this point, where he stands in close proximity to Barbour, the author of a poem on a subject so cognate to 'Wallace' as 'Bruce.' Nothing is known of Harry but that he was blind from infancy, that he composed this poem, and gained a subsistence by reciting or singing portions of it through the country. Another Wandering Willie, (see 'Redgauntlet,') he 'passed like night from land to land,' led by his own instincts, and wherever he met with a congenial audience, he proceeded to chant portions of the noble knight's achievements, his eyes the while twinkling, through their sad setting of darkness, with enthusiasm, and often suffused with tears. In some minds the conception of this blind wandering bard may awaken ludicrous emotions, but to us it suggests a certain sublimity. Blind Harry has powerfully described Wallace standing in the light and shrinking from the ghost of Fawdoun, (see the 'Battle of Black- Earnside,' in the 'Specimens,') but Harry himself seems walking in the light of the ghost of Wallace, and it ministers to him, not terror, but inspiration. Entering a cot at night, and asked for a tale, he begins, in low tones, to recite that frightful apparition at Gaskhall, and the aged men and the crones vie with the children in drawing near the 'ingle bleeze,' as if in fire alone lay the refuge from

'Fawdoun, that ugly sire,
That haill hall he had set into a fire,
As to his sight, his OWN HEAD IN HIS HAND.'

Arriving in a village at the hour of morning rest and refreshment, he charms the swains by such words as

'The merry day sprang from the orient
With beams bright illuminate the Occident,
After Titan Phoebus upriseth fair,
High in the sphere the signs he made declare.
Zephyrus then began his morning course,
The sweet vapour thus from the ground resourse,' &c.—

and the simple villagers wonder at hearing these images from one who is blind, not seeing the sun. As the leaves are rustling down from the ruddy trees of late autumn, he sings to a little circle of wayside wanderers—

'The dark region appearing wonder fast,
In November, when October was past,

* * * * *

Good Wallace saw the night's messenger,
Phoebus had lost his fiery beams so clear;
Out of that wood they durst not turn that side
For adversours that in their way would hide.'

And while on the verge of the December sky, the wintry sun is trembling and about to set as if for ever, then is the Minstrel's voice heard sobbing amidst the sobs of his hearers, as he tells how his hero's sun went down while it was yet day.

'On Wednesday the false Southron furth brocht
To martyr him as they before had wrocht,
Of men in arms led him a full great rout,
With a bauld sprite guid Wallace blent about.'

There can be little doubt that Blind Harry, during his lifetime, became a favourite, nay, a power in the realm. Wherever he circulated, there circulated the fame of Wallace; there, his deeds were recounted; there, hatred of a foreign foe, and love to their native land, were inculcated as first principles; and long after the Homer of Scotland had breathed his last, and been consigned perhaps to some little kirkyard among the uplands, his lays continued to live; and we know that such a man as Burns (who read them in the modern paraphrase of William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, a book which was, till within a somewhat recent period, a household god in the libraries of the Scotch) derived from the old singer much of 'that national prejudice which boiled in his breast till the floodgates of life shut in eternal rest.' If Barbour, as we said, was fortunate in his subject, still more was Blind Harry in his. The interest felt in Wallace is of a deeper and warmer kind than that which we feel in Bruce. Bruce was of royal blood; Wallace was from an ancient but not wealthy family. Bruce stained his career by one great crime —great in itself, but greater from the peculiar notions of the age —the murder of Comyn in the sanctuary of Dumfries; on the character of Wallace no similar imputation rests. Wallace initiated that plan of guerilla warfare,—that fighting now on foot and now on the wing, now with beak and now with talons, now with horns and now with hoofs,—which Bruce had only to perfect. Wallace was unsuccessful, and was besides treated by the King of England with revolting barbarity; while Bruce became victorious: and, as we saw in our remarks on Chaucer, it is the unfortunate brave who stamp themselves most forcibly on a nation's heart, and it is the red letters, which tell of suffering and death, which are with most difficulty erased from a nation's tablets. On Bruce we look somewhat as we regard Washington,—a great, serene man, who, after long reverses, nobly sustained, gained a notable national triumph; to Wallace we feel, as the Italians do to Garibaldi, as a demon of warlike power,—blending courage and clemency, enthusiasm and skill, daring and determination, in proportions almost superhuman,—and we cry with the poet,

'The sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield,
Was light in his terrible hand.'

We have often regretted that Sir Walter Scott, who, after all, has not done full justice to Bruce in that very unequal and incondite poem 'The Lord of the Isles,' had not bent his strength upon the Ulysses bow of Wallace, and filled up that splendid sketch of a part of his history to be found near the beginning of 'The Fair Maid of Perth.' As it is, after all that a number of respectable writers, such as Miss Porter, Mrs Hemans, Findlay, the late Mr Macpherson of Glasgow, and others, have done—in prose or verse, in the novel, the poem, or the drama—to illustrate the character and career of the Scottish hero, Blind Harry remains his poet.

It is necessary to notice that Harry derived, by his own account, many of the facts of his narrative from a work by John Blair, a Benedictine monk from Dundee, who acted as Wallace's chaplain, and seems to have composed a life of him in Latin, which is lost. Besides these, he doubtless mingled in the story a number of traditions—some true, and some false—which he found floating through the country. His authority in reference to certain disputed matters, such as Wallace's journey to France, and his capture of the Red Rover, Thomas de Longueville, who became his fast friend and fellow-soldier, was not long ago entirely established by certain important documents brought to light by the Maitland Club. It is probable that some other of his supposed misstatements—always excepting his ghost-stories—may yet receive from future researches the confirmation they as yet want. Blind Harry, living about a century and a half after the era of Wallace, and at a time when tradition was the chief literature, was not likely to be able to test the evidence of many of the circumstances which he narrated; but he seems to speak in good faith: and, after all, what Paley says is unquestionably true as a general principle—'Men tell lies about minute circumstantials, but they rarely invent.'

BATTLE OF BLACK-EARNSIDE.

Kerlie beheld unto the bold Heroun,
Upon Fawdoun as he was looking down,
A subtil stroke upward him took that tide,
Under the cheeks the grounden sword gart[1] glide,
By the mail good, both halse[2] and his craig-bane[3]
In sunder strake; thus ended that chieftain,
To ground he fell, feil[4] folk about him throng,
'Treason,' they cried, 'traitors are us among.'
Kerlie, with that, fled out soon at a side,
His fellow Steven then thought no time to bide.
The fray was great, and fast away they yeed,[5]
Both toward Earn; thus 'scaped they that dread.
Butler for woe of weeping might not stint.
Thus recklessly this good knight have they tint.[6]
They deemed all that it was Wallace' men,
Or else himself, though they could not him ken;
'He is right near, we shall him have but[7] fail,
This feeble wood may little him avail.'
Forty there pass'd again to Saint Johnstoun,
With this dead corpse, to burying made it boune.[8]
Parted their men, syne[9] divers ways they rode,
A great power at Dupplin still there 'bode.
To Dalwryeth the Butler pass'd but let,[10]
At sundry fords the gate[11] they unbeset,[12]
To keep the wood while it was day they thought.
As Wallace thus in the thick forest sought,
For his two men in mind he had great pain,
He wist not well if they were ta'en or slain,
Or 'scaped haill[13] by any jeopardy.
Thirteen were left with him, no more had he;
In the Gaskhall their lodging have they ta'en.
Fire got they soon, but meat then had they nane;
Two sheep they took beside them of a fold,
Ordain'd to sup into that seemly hold:
Graithed[14] in haste some food for them to dight:[15]
So heard they blow rude horns upon height.
Two sent he forth to look what it might be;
They 'bode right long, and no tidings heard he,
But bousteous[16] noise so bryvely blowing fast;
So other two into the wood forth pass'd.
None came again, but bousteously can blaw,
Into great ire he sent them forth on raw.[17]
When that alone Wallace was leaved there,
The awful blast abounded meikle mare;[18]
Then trow'd he well they had his lodging seen;
His sword he drew of noble metal keen,
Syne forth he went whereat he heard the horn.
Without the door Fawdoun was him beforn,
As to his sight, his own head in his hand;
A cross he made when he saw him so stand.
At Wallace in the head he swakked[19] there,
And he in haste soon hint[20] it by the hair,
Syne out again at him he could it cast,
Into his heart he greatly was aghast.
Right well he trow'd that was no sprite of man,
It was some devil, that sic[21] malice began.
He wist no wale[22] there longer for to bide.
Up through the hall thus wight Wallace can glide,
To a close stair, the boards they rave[23] in twin,[24]
Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn.
Up the water he suddenly could fare,
Again he blink'd what 'pearance he saw there,
He thought he saw Fawdoun, that ugly sire,
That haill[25] hall he had set into a fire;
A great rafter he had into his hand.
Wallace as then no longer would he stand.
Of his good men full great marvel had he,
How they were tint through his feil[26] fantasy.
Trust right well that all this was sooth indeed,
Suppose that it no point be of the creed.
Power they had with Lucifer that fell,
The time when he parted from heaven to hell.
By sic mischief if his men might be lost,
Drowned or slain among the English host;
Or what it was in likeness of Fawdoun,
Which brought his men to sudden confusion;
Or if the man ended in ill intent,
Some wicked sprite again for him present.
I cannot speak of sic divinity,
To clerks I will let all sic matters be:
But of Wallace, now forth I will you tell.
When he was won out of that peril fell,
Right glad was he that he had 'scaped sa,[27]
But for his men great mourning can he ma.[28]
Flait[29] by himself to the Maker above
Why he suffer'd he should sic paining prove.
He wist not well if that it was God's will;
Right or wrong his fortune to fulfil,
Had he pleas'd God, he trow'd it might not bo
He should him thole[30] in sic perplexity.
But great courage in his mind ever drave,
Of Englishmen thinking amends to have.
As he was thus walking by him alone
Upon Earnside, making a piteous moan,
Sir John Butler, to watch the fords right,
Out from his men of Wallace had a sight;
The mist again to the mountains was gone,
To him he rode, where that he made his moan.
On loud he speir'd,[31] 'What art thou walks that gate?'
'A true man, Sir, though my voyage be late;
Errands I pass from Down unto my lord,
Sir John Stewart, the right for to record,
In Down is now, newly come from the King.'
Then Butler said, 'This is a selcouth[32] thing,
You lied all out, you have been with Wallace,
I shall thee know, ere you come off this place;'
To him he start the courser wonder wight,
Drew out a sword, so made him for to light.
Above the knee good Wallace has him ta'en,
Through thigh and brawn in sunder strake the bane.[33]
Derfly[34] to dead the knight fell on the land.
Wallace the horse soon seized in his hand,
An ackward stroke syne took him in that stead,
His craig in two; thus was the Butler dead.
An Englishman saw their chieftain was slain,
A spear in rest he cast with all his main,
On Wallace drave, from the horse him to bear;
Warily he wrought, as worthy man in weir.[35]
The spear ho wan withouten more abode,
On horse he lap,[36] and through a great rout rode;
To Dalwryeth he knew the ford full well:
Before him came feil[37] stuffed[38] in fine steel.
He strake the first, but bade,[39] on the blasoun,[40]
Till horse and man both fleet[41] the water down.
Another soon down from his horse he bare,
Stamped to ground, and drown'd withouten mair.[42]
The third he hit in his harness of steel,
Throughout the cost,[43] the spear it brake some deal.
The great power then after him can ride.
He saw no waill[44] there longer for to bide.
His burnish'd brand braithly[45] in hand he bare,
Whom he hit right they follow'd him na mair.[46]
To stuff the chase feil freiks[47] follow'd fast,
But Wallace made the gayest aye aghast.
The muir he took, and through their power yede,
The horse was good, but yet he had great dread
For failing ere he wan unto a strength,
The chase was great, skail'd[48] over breadth and length,
Through strong danger they had him aye in sight.
At the Blackford there Wallace down can light,
His horse stuffed,[49] for way was deep and lang,
A large great mile wightly on foot could gang.[50]
Ere he was hors'd riders about him cast,
He saw full well long so he might not last.
Sad[51] men indeed upon him can renew,
With returning that night twenty he slew,
The fiercest aye rudely rebutted he,
Keeped his horse, and right wisely can flee,
Till that he came the mirkest[52] muir amang.
His horse gave over, and would no further gang.

[1] 'Gart:' caused. [2] 'Halse:' throat. [3] 'Craig-bane:' neck-lone. [4] 'Feil:' many. [5] 'Yeed:' went. [6] 'Tint:' lost. [7] 'But:' without. [8] 'Boune:' ready. [9] 'Sync:' then. [10] 'But let:' without impediment. [11] 'Gate:' way. [12] 'Unbeset:' surround. [13] 'Haill:' wholly. [14] 'Graithed:' prepared. [15] 'Dight:' Make ready. [16] 'Bousteous:' boisterous. [17] 'On raw:' one after another. [18] 'Meikle mare:' much more. [19] 'Swakked:' pitched. [20] 'Hint:' took. [21] 'Sic:' such. [22] 'Wale:' advantage. [23] 'Rave:' split. [24] 'Twin:' twain. [25] 'Haill:'whole. [26] 'Feil:' great. [27] 'Sa:' so. [28] 'Ma:' make. [29] 'Flait:' chided. [30] 'Thole:' suffer. [31] 'Speir'd:' asked. [32] 'Selcouth:' strange. [33] 'Bane:' bone. [34] 'Derfly:' Quickly. [35] 'Weir:' war. [36] 'Lap:' leaped. [37] 'Feil:' many. [38] 'Stuffed:' armed. [39] 'But bade:' without delay. [40] 'Blasoun:' dress over armour. [41] 'Fleet:' float. [42] 'Mair:' more. [43] 'Cost:' side. [44] 'Waill:' advantage. [45] 'Braithly:' violently. [46] 'Na mair:' no more. [47] 'Feil freiks:' many fierce fellows. [48] 'Skail'd:' spread. [49] 'Stuffed:' blown. [50] 'Gang:' go. [51] 'Sad:' steady. [52] 'Mirkest:' darkest.

THE DEATH OF WALLACE.

On Wednesday the false Southron forth him brought
To martyr him, as they before had wrought.[1]
Of men in arms led him a full great rout.
With a bold sprite good Wallace blink'd about:
A priest he ask'd, for God that died on tree.
King Edward then commanded his clergy,
And said, 'I charge you, upon loss of life,
None be so bold yon tyrant for to shrive.
He has reign'd long in contrare my highness.'
A blithe bishop soon, present in that place;
Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord;
Against the king he made this right record,
And said, 'Myself shall hear his confessioun,
If I have might, in contrare of thy crown.
An[2] thou through force will stop me of this thing,
I vow to God, who is my righteous king,
That all England I shall her interdict,
And make it known thou art a heretic.
The sacrament of kirk I shall him give:
Syne[3] take thy choice, to starve[4] or let him live.
It were more 'vail, in worship of thy crown,
To keep such one in life in thy bandoun,[5]
Than all the land and good that thou hast reft,
But cowardice thee aye from honour dreft.[6]
Thou hast thy life rougin[7] in wrongous deed;
That shall be seen on thee, or on thy seed.'
The king gart[8] charge they should the bishop tae,[9]
But sad[10] lords counselled to let him gae.
All Englishmen said that his desire was right.
To Wallace then he raiked[11] in their sight,
And sadly heard his confession till an end:
Humbly to God his sprite he there commend,
Lowly him served with hearty devotion
Upon his knees, and said an orison.
A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever,
From his childhood from it would not dissever;
Better he trow'd in voyage[12] for to speed.
But then he was despoiled of his weed.[13]
This grace he ask'd at Lord Clifford, that knight,
To let him have his psalter-book in sight.
He gart a priest it open before him hold,
While they till him had done all that they would.
Steadfast he read for ought they did him there;
Foil[14] Southrons said that Wallace felt no sair.[15]
Good devotion so was his beginning,
Continued therewith, and fair was his ending;
Till speech and spirit at once all can fare
To lasting bliss, we trow, for eveermair.

[1] 'Wrought:' contrived. [2] 'An:' if. [3] 'Syne:' then. [4] 'Starve:' perish. [5] 'Bandoun:' disposal. [6] 'Dreft:' drove. [7] 'Rougin:' spent. [8] 'Gart:' caused. [9] 'Tae:' take. [10] 'Sad:' grave. [11] 'Raiked:' walked. [12] 'Voyage:' journey to heaven. [13] 'Weed:' clothes. [14] 'Feil:' many. [15] 'Sair:' sore.

JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.

Here we have a great ascent from our former subject of biography—from Blind Harry to James I.—from a beggar to a king. But in the Palace of Poetry there are 'many mansions,' and men of all ranks, climes, characters, professions, and we had almost added talents, have been welcome to inhabit there. For, even as in the House Beautiful, the weak Ready-to-halt and the timid Much-afraid were as cheerfully received as the strong Honest and the bold Valiant-for-truth; so Poetry has inspired children, and seeming fools, and maniacs, and mendicants with the finest breath of her spirit. The 'Fable-tree' Fontaine is as immortal as Corneille; Christopher Smart's 'David' shall live as long as Milton's 'Paradise Lost;' and the rude epic of a blind wanderer, whose birth, parentage, and period of death are all alike unknown, shall continue to rank in interest with the productions of one who inherited that kingdom of Scotland, the independence of which was bought by the successive efforts and the blended blood of Wallace and Bruce.

Let us now look for a moment at the history and the writings of this 'Royal Poet.' The name will suggest to all intelligent readers the title of one of the most pleasing papers in Washington Irving's 'Sketch-book.' James I. was the son of Robert III. of Scotland,—a character familiar to all from the admirable 'Fair Maid of Perth,'—and of Annabella Stewart. He was created Earl of Carrick; and after the miserable death of the Duke of Rothesay, his elder brother, his father, apprehensive of the further designs of Albany, determined to send James to France, to find an asylum and receive his education in that friendly Court. On his way, the vessel was captured off Flamborough Head by an English cruiser, (the 13th of March 1405,) and the young prince, with his attendants, was conveyed to London, and committed to the Tower. As there was a truce between the two nations at the time, this was a flagrant outrage on the law of nations, and has indelibly disgraced the memory of Henry IV., who, when some one remonstrated with him on the injustice of the detention, replied, with cool brutality, 'Had the Scots been grateful, they ought to have sent the youth to me, for I understand French well.' Here for nineteen years,—during the remainder of the life of Henry IV., and the whole of the reign of Henry V.,—James continued. He was educated, however, highly, according to the fashion of these times, —instructed in the languages, as well as in music, painting, architecture, horticulture, dancing, fencing, poetry, and other accomplishments. Still it must have fretted his high spirit to be passing his young life in prison, while without horses were stamping, plumes glistening, trumpets sounding, tournaments waging, and echoes from the great victories of Henry V. in France ringing around. One sweetener of his solitude, however, he at length enjoyed. Having been transferred from the Tower to Windsor Castle, he beheld one day from its windows that beautiful vision he has described in 'The King's Quhair,' (see 'Specimens.') This was Lady Jane or Joanna Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, niece of Richard II., and grand-daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. She was a lady of great beauty and accomplishments as well as of high rank, and James, even before he knew her name, became deeply enamoured. The passion was returned, and their mutual attachment had by and by an important bearing upon his prospects.

In 1423, the Duke of Bedford being now the English Regent, the friends of James renewed negotiations—often attempted before in vain—for his return to his native land, where his father had been long dead, and which, torn by factions and steeped in blood, was sorely needing his presence. Commissioners from the two kingdoms met at Pontefract on the 12th of May 1423, when, in presence of the young King, and with his consent, matters were arranged. The English coolly demanded £40,000 to defray the expense of James's nurture and education, (as though a bill were handed in to a man who had been unjustly detained in prison on a false charge, ere he left its walls,) insisted on the immediate departure of the Scots from France, where a portion of them were fighting in the French army, and procured the assent of the Scottish Privy Council to the marriage of James with his beloved Jane Beaufort. A truce, too, with Scotland was concluded for seven years. All this was settled; and soon after, in the Church of St Mary Overies, Southwark, so often alluded to in the 'Life of Gower,' the happy pair were wed. It seemed a most auspicious event for both countries, and to augur the substitution of permanent peace for casual and temporary truces. To Lady Jane Beaufort it gave a crown, and a noble, gallant, and gifted prince to share it withal. On James it bestowed a lady of great beauty, who was regarded, too, with gratitude as having lightened the load of his captivity, and been a sunshine in his shady place, and—least consideration—who brought him a dowry of £10,000, which was, in fact, a remission of the fourth part of his ransom.

Attended by a magnificent retinue, the royal pair set out for Scotland. They were met at Durham by three hundred of the principal nobility and gentry, twenty-eight of whom were retained by the English as hostages for the national faith. Arrived on his native soil, James, at Melrose Abbey, gave his solemn assent on the Holy Gospels to the treaty; and seldom have the Eildon Hills returned a louder and more joyous shout of acclamation than now welcomed back to the kingdom of his fathers the 'Royal Poet.' He proceeded to Edinburgh, where he celebrated Easter with great pomp, and a month later, he and his queen were solemnly crowned inthe Abbey Church at Scone. This was in 1424. He lived after this only thirteen years; but the period of his reign has always been thought a glorious interlude in the dark early history of Scotland. He set himself, with considerable success, to curb the exorbitant power of the nobles, sacrificing some of them, such as Albany, to his just indignation. He passed many useful regulations in reference to the coinage, the constitution, and the commerce of the country. He suppressed with a strong hand some of the gangs of robbers and 'sorners' which abounded, founding instead the order of Bedesmen or King's Beggars, immortalised since in the character of Edie Ochiltree. He stretched a strong hand over the refractory Highland chieftains. While keeping at first on good terms with the English Court, he turned with a fonder eye to the French as the ancient allies of Scotland, and in 1436 gave his daughter Margaret in marriage to the Dauphin. This step roused the jealousy of his southern neighbours, who tried even to intercept the fleet that was conveying the bride across the Channel, whereupon James, stung to fury, proclaimed war against England, and in August commenced the siege of Roxburgh Castle. The castle, after being environed for fifteen days, was about to fall into his hands, when the Queen suddenly arrived in the camp, and communicated some information, probably referring to a threatened conspiracy of the nobles, which induced him to throw up the siege, disband his army, and return northward in haste. This unexpected step probably retarded, but could not prevent the dreadful purpose of death which had already been formed against the King.

In October 1436, he held his last Parliament in Edinburgh, in which, amidst many other enactments, we find, curiously enough, a prefiguration of the Forbes Mackenzie Act, in a decree that all taverns should be shut at nine o'clock. In the end of the year he determined on retiring to Perth, where (in the language of Gibbon, applied to Timour) 'he was expected by the Angel of Death.' It is said that, when about to cross the Frith of Forth, then called the Scottish Sea, a Highland woman, who claimed the character of a prophetess, like Meg Merrilees in fiction, met the cavalcade, and cried out, with a loud voice, 'My Lord the King, if you pass this water you shall never return again alive;' but as she was concluded to be mad or drunk, her warning was scorned. He betook himself to the convent of the Black Friars, where Christmas was being celebrated with great pomp and splendour. Meanwhile Robert Grahame, and Walter, Earl of Athole, the King's own uncle, actuated, the former by revenge on account of the resumption of some lands improperly granted to his family, and the latter by a desire to succeed to the Crown, had formed a plot against James's life. Several warnings, besides that of the Highland seeress, the King received, but he heeded them not, and, like most of the doomed, was in unnaturally high spirits, as if the winding-sheet far up his breast had been a wedding-robe.

It is the evening of the 20th of February 1437. James and his nobles and ladies are seated at table till deep into the night, engaged in chess, music, and song. Athole, like another Judas, has supped with them, and gone out at a late hour. A tremendous knocking is heard at the gate. It is the Highland prophetess, who, having followed the monarch to Perth, is seeking to force her way into the room. The King tells her, through his usher, that he cannot receive her to-night, but will hear her tidings to-morrow. She retires reluctantly, murmuring that they will for ever rue their refusal to admit her into the royal presence. About an hour after this, James calls for the Voidee, or parting-cup, and the company disperse. Sir Robert Stewart, the chamberlain, who is in the confidence of the conspirators, is the last to retire, having previously destroyed the locks and removed the bars of the doors of the royal bed- chamber and the outer room adjoining. The King is standing before the fire, in his night-gown and slippers, and talking gaily with the Queen and her ladies, when torches are seen flashing up from the garden, and the clash of arms and the sound of angry voices is heard from below. A sense of the dread reality bursts on them in an instant. The Queen and the ladies run to secure the door of the chamber, while James, seizing the tongs, wrenches up one of the boards of the floor and takes refuge in a vault beneath. This was wont to have an opening to the outer court, but it had unfortunately been built up of late by his own orders. There, under the replaced boards, cowers the King, while the Queen and her women seek to barricade the door. One brave young lady, Catherine Douglas, thrusts her beautiful arm into the staple from which the bolt had been removed. It is broken in a moment, and she sinks back, to bear, with her descendants—a family well known in Scotland—the name of Barlass ever since. The murderers, who had previously killed in the passage one Walter Straiton, a page, rush in, with naked swords, wounding the ladies, striking, and well-nigh killing the Queen, and crying, with frantic imprecations, 'This is but a woman! Where is James?' Finding him not in the chamber, they leave it, and disperse through the neighbouring apartments in search.

James, who had become wearied of his immurement, and thought the assassins were gone, calls now on one of the ladies to aid him in coming out of his place of concealment. But while this is being effected, one of the murderers returns. The cry, 'Found, found,' rings through the halls; and after a violent but unarmed resistance, the King is, with circumstances of horrible barbarity, first mangled, then run through the body, and then despatched with daggers. In vain he offers half his kingdom for his life; and when he seeks a confessor from Grahame, the ruffian replies, 'Thou shalt have no confessor but this sword.' It is satisfactory to know that the Queen made her escape, and that the criminals were punished, although the tortures they endured are such as human nature shrinks from conceiving, and history with a shudder records.

* * * * *

We turn with pleasure from King James's life and death to his poetry, although there is so little of it that a sentence or two will suffice. 'The King's Quhair' is a poem conceived very much in the spirit, and written in the style of Chaucer, whose works were favourites with James. There is the same sympathy with nature, and the same perception of its relation to and unconscious sympathy with human feelings, and the same luscious richness in the description, alike of the early beauties of spring and of youthful feminine loveliness, although this seems more natural in the young poet James than in the sexagenarian author of 'The Canterbury Tales.' There is nothing even in Chaucer we think finer than the picture of Lady Jane Beaufort in the garden, particularly in the lines—

'Or are ye god Cupidis own princess,
And comen are ye to loose me out of band?
Or are ye very Nature the goddess,
That have depainted with your heavenly hand
This garden full of flowers as they stand?'

Or where, picturing his mistress, he cries—

'And above all this there was, well I wot,
Beauty enough to make a world to dote.'

Or where, describing a ruby on her bosom, he says—

'That as a spark of low[1] so wantonly
Seemed burning upon her white throat.'

[1] 'Low:' fire.

Besides this precious little poem, King James is believed by some to have written several poems on Scottish subjects, such as 'Christis Kirk on the Green,' 'Peblis to the Play,' &c., but his claim to these is uncertain. The first describes the mingled merrymaking and contest common in the old rude marriages of Scotland, and, whether by James or not, is full of burly, picturesque force.

Take the Miller—

'The Miller was of manly make,
To meet him was no mowes.[1]
There durst not tensome there him take,
So cowed he their powes.[2]
The bushment whole about him brake,
And bicker'd him with bows.
Then traitorously behind his back
They hack'd him on the boughs
Behind that day.'

Or look at the following ill-paired pair—

'Of all these maidens mild as mead,
Was none so jimp as Gillie.
As any rose her rude[3] was red—
Her lire[4] like any lillie.
But yellow, yellow was her head,
And she of love so silly;
Though all her kin had sworn her dead,
She would have none but Willie,
Alone that day.

'She scorn'd Jock, and scripped at him,
And murgeon'd him with mocks—
He would have loved her—she would not let him,
For all his yellow locks.
He cherisht her—she bade go chat him—
She counted him not two clocks.
So shamefully his short jack[5] set him,
His legs were like two rocks,
Or rungs that day.'

[1] 'Mowes:' joke. [2] 'Powes:' heads. [3] 'Rude:' complexion. [4] 'Lire:' flesh, skill. [5] 'Jack:' jacket.

Our readers will perceive the resemblance, both in spirit and in form of verse, between this old poem and the 'Holy Fair,' and other productions of Burns.

James, cut off in the prime of life, may almost be called the abortive Alfred of Scotland. Had he lived, he might have made important contributions to her literature as well as laws, and given her a standing among the nations of Europe, which it took long ages, and even an incorporation with England, to secure. As it is, he stands high on the list of royal authors, and of those kings who, whether authors or not, have felt that nations cannot live on bread alone, and who have sought their intellectual culture as an object not inferior to their physical comfort. It is not, perhaps, too much to say, that no man or woman of genius has sate either on the Scotch or English throne since, except Cromwell, to whom, however, the term 'genius,' in its common sense, seems ludicrously inadequate. James V. had some of the erratic qualities of the poetic tribe, but his claim to the songs—such as the 'Gaberlunzie Man'—which go under his name, is exceedingly doubtful. James VI. was a pedant, without being a scholar—a rhymester, not a poet. Of the rest we need not speak. Seldom has the sceptre become an Aaron's rod, and flourished with the buds and blossoms of song. In our annals there has been one, and but one 'Royal Poet.'

THE KING THUS DESCRIBES THE APPEARANCE OF HIS MISTRESS, WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER FROM A WINDOW OF HIS PRISON AT WINDSOR.

X.

The longë dayës and the nightës eke,
I would bewail my fortune in this wise,
For which, against distress comfórt to seek,
My custom was, on mornës, for to rise
Early as day: O happy exercise!
By thee came I to joy out of tormènt;
But now to purpose of my first intent.

XI.

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone,
Despaired of all joy and remedy,
For-tired of my thought, and woe begone;
And to the window 'gan I walk in hye,[1]
To see the world and folk that went forby;
As for the time (though I of mirthis food
Might have no more) to look it did me good.

XII.