Soul of my dear Maria haste,
Whilst my languid spirits waste,
When from this my prison free,
Catch my soul, it flies to thee;
Death had doubly arm'd his dart,
In piercing thee it pierc'd my heart.
THE ROMANCE OF THE KNIGHT.
MODERNIZED BY CHATTERTON.1
From "The Romaunte of the Cnyghte by John de Bergham."
THE pleasing sweets of spring and summer past,
The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast,
The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold,
The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold,
Mantling the spreading moor in heavenly white,
Meeting from every hill the ravish'd sight.
The yellow flag uprears its spotted head,
Hanging regardant o'er its wat'ry bed;
The worthy knight ascends his foaming steed,
Of size uncommon, and no common breed.
1 See "Rowley Poems," page 246, and note.
His sword of giant make hangs from his belt,
Whose piercing edge his daring foes had felt.
To seek for glory and renown he goes
To scatter death among his trembling foes;
Unnerved by fear they trembled at his stroke;
So cutting blasts shake the tall mountain oak.
Down in a dark and solitary vale
Where the curst screech-owl sings her fatal tale,
Where copse and brambles interwoven lie,
Where trees entwining arch the azure sky,
Thither the fate-mark'd champion bent his way,
By purling streams to lose the heat of day;
A sudden cry assaults his list'ning ear,
His soul's too noble to admit of fear.—
The cry re-echoes; with his bounding steed
He gropes the way from whence the cries proceed.
The arching trees above obscur'd the light,
Here 'twas all evening, there eternal night.
And now the rustling leaves and strengthened cry
Bespeaks the cause of the confusion nigh;
Through the thick brake the astonish'd champion
A weeping damsel bending on her knees:
A ruffian knyght would force her to the ground,
But still some small resisting strength she found.
(Women and cats, if you compulsion use,
The pleasure which they die for will refuse.)
The champion thus: Desist, discourteous knight,
Why dost thou shamefully misuse thy mighte.
With eye contemptuous thus the knight replies, Begone! whoever dares my fury dies.
Down to the ground the champion's gauntlet flew, I dare thy fury, and I'll prove it too.
Like two fierce mountain boars enraged they fly, The prancing steeds make Echo rend the sky, Like a fierce tempest is the bloody fight,
Dead from his lofty steed falls the proud ruffian knight.
The victor, sadly pleas'd, accosts the dame,
I will convey you hence to whence you came.
With look of gratitude the fair replied
Content; I in your virtue may confide.
But, said the fair, as mournful she survey'd
The breathless corse upon the meadow laid,
May all thy sins from Heaven forgiveness find!
May not thy body's crimes affect thy mind!
HERVENIS, harping on the hackney'd text,
By disquisitions is so sore perplex'd,
He stammers,-instantaneously is drawn
A bordered piece of inspiration lawn,
Which being thrice unto his nose apply'd,
Into his pineal gland the vapours glide;
And now again we hear the doctor roar
On subjects he dissected thrice before.
I own at church I very seldom pray,
For vicars, strangers to devotion, bray.
Sermons though flowing from the sacred lawn,
Are flimsy wires from reason's ingot drawn ;
And to confess the truth, another cause
My every prayer and adoration draws:
In all the glaring tinctures of the bow,
The ladies front me in celestial row;
(Tho' when black melancholy damps my joys,
I call them nature's trifles, airy toys;
Yet when the goddess Reason guides the strain, I think them, what they are, a heavenly train ;) The amorous rolling, the black sparkling eye, The gentle hazle, and the optic sly;
The easy shape, the panting semi-globes,
The frankness which each latent charm disrobes; The melting passions, and the sweet severe,
The easy amble, the majestic air;
The tap'ring waste, the silver-mantled arms,
All is one vast variety of charms.
Say, who but sages stretch'd beyond their
Italian singers, or an unman'd man,
Can see elysium spread upon their brow,
And to a drowsy curate's sermon bow?
If (but 'tis seldom) no fair female face
Attracts my notice by some glowing grace,
Around the monuments I cast my eyes,
And see absurdities and nonsense rise.
Here rueful-visag'd angels seem to tell
With weeping eyes, a soul is gone to hell;
There a child's head supported by duck's wings,
With toothless mouth a hallelujah sings:
In fun'ral pile eternal marble burns,
And a good Christian seems to sleep in urns.
A self-drawn curtain bids the reader see
An honourable Welchman's pedigree;
A rock of porph'ry darkens half the place,
And virtues blubber with no awkward grace;
Yet, strange to tell, in all the dreary gloom
That makes the sacred honours of the tomb,
No quarter'd coats above the bell appear,
No batter'd arms, or golden corsets there.
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