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Oup and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee:
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.'

Our king has written a braid1 letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame!'

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blindit his e'e.

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And if we gang to sea, master,

I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sailed a league, a league,

A league, but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,2

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves came o'er the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

'O where will I get a gude sailor
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall topmast,
To see if I can spy land?'

'O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall topmast-
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step, but barely ane,

When a boult flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.

'Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And letna the sea come in.'

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side,
-But still the sea came in.

O laith3 laith were our gude Scots lords

To weet their cork-heeled shoon!4

But lang or a' the play was played,
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed

That floated on the faem;

And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair came hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white-
The maidens tore their hair;

A' for the sake of their true loves-
For them they 'll see na mair.

O lang lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

1 Sky.

2 Spring.

3 Loath.

4 Shoes.

And lang lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their gowd kairns in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear lovesFor them they'll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdeen

'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

Lecture the Fourth.

JOHN THE CHAPLAIN-THOMAS OCCLEVE-JOHN LYDGATE-JOHN SKELTON-HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY-SIR THOMAS WYATT-THOMAS TUSSER-ANDREW BOURD-MISCELLANEOUS POEMS-PROSE WRITERS-SIR JOHN FORTESCUE-WILLIAM CAXTON.

N our last lecture we fully considered the Scottish poets who flourished

I between the tige of Edward the Third, and that of Elizabeth, and we

shall now return to review those of England during the same period. We must here, however, at the outset remark, that though a few names of some degree of eminence will pass before us, yet we should look in vain for the same order of genius among them which was displayed by Dunbar, or even by James the First.

Of these poets the two first that present themselves are John the Chaplain, and Thomas Occleve. Of the former little is now known; and of the latter comparatively nothing, farther than that he was by profession a lawyer, and though a tolerably smooth versifier, yet nothing more. John Lydgate, the third of these writers, will require a little more attention.

LYDGATE was born in Suffolk, 1380, the fourth year of the reign of Richard the Second. He was an Augustine monk of St. Edmondsberry, and though both a philosopher and a divine, his chief attention was devoted to the muses. Having travelled in France and Italy, and carefully studied the poetry of those countries, he returned to his monastery, and there established a school for the instruction of young men of the upper ranks, in the art of versification—a fact which proves that poetry had become a favorite study among the few who acquired any tincture of letters in that age. Lydgate died at Bury, 1440, in the sixty-first year of his age.

The genius of this author was, perhaps, not above mediocrity; but by study and care he acquired such excellence in versification, as, in this particular, to excel, according to the judgment of some critics, even Chaucer himself. His poetical compositions range over a great variety of styles, embracing besides The History of Thebes, The Fall of Princes, and The Destruction of

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Troy, which are his three principal performances, many Odes, Eclogues, and Satires. His muse,' says Warton,' was of universal access; and he was not only the poet of the monastery, but of the world in general. If a disguising was contemplated by the company of goldsmiths, a mask before his majesty at Eltham, a May game for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming before the Lord Mayor, or a carol for the coronation, Lydgate was consulted, and gave the poetry.' In the words of the same writer, 'there is great softness and facility' in the following passage found in his Destruction of Troy :

DESCRIPTION OF A SYLVAN RETREAT.

Till at the last, among the bowes glade,
Of adventure, I caught a pleasant shade;
Full smooth, and plain, and lusty for to seen,
And soft as velvet was the yonge green :
Where from my horse I did alight as fast,
And on the bow aloft his reine cast.
So faint and mate of weariness I was,
That I me laid adown upon the grass,
Upon a brinke, shortly for to tell,
Beside the river of a crystal well;

And the water, as I reherse can,

Like quicke silver in his streams y-ran.

Of which the gravel and the brighte stone,
As any gold, against the sun y-shone.

After Lydgate no poet appeared in England for more than a half century, whose name has been preserved from oblivion; for the reigns of Edward the Fourth, Richard the Third, and Henry the Seventh, extending from 1461 till 1509, were barren of every thing like true poetic genius. We descend, therefore, down the current of English literature without meeting with any thing to attract our attention until we reach the age of Henry the Eighth. The first name that occurs at this period is that of John Skelton.

SKELTON was born in Cumberland, but at what precise time is unknown. He was educated at the university of Oxford, and in 1489 was there invested with the laurel—a sort of poetical degree occasionally conferred upon the favorites of the muses. He took orders, and became rector of Dysse in Norfolk; but he was eventually suspended by his diocesan for writing loose and obscene verses, not only against obscure individuals, but even against Cardinal Wolsey, from whose resentment he took refuge in the sanctuary of Westminster, under the protection of abbot Islip. His death occurred on the twenty-first of June, 1529.

Skelton's poems consist chiefly of Sonnets and Satires, and his genius, according to Warton, was peculiarly suited to the low burlesque, though he occasionally assumed a more amiable and poetic manner, as in the following

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