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Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound
Cheves slowie on, and then embollen clangs,

Shakes the hie spyre, and, losst, dispended, drowned,
Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;
The windes are up, the lofty elmen swanges;
Again the levynne and the thunder poures,

And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.

Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine,
The Abbote of Seyncte Godwyne's convente came:
His chapournette was drented with the reine,
And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same.
The storme encreasen, and he drew aside

With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide.

His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne,
With a gold button fastened neere his chynne;
His autremete was edged with golden twynne,
And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte Have binne-
Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne;
The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte,
For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte.

'An almes, sir prieste!' the droppynge pilgrim saide;
'O let me waite within your covente dore,
Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,
And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer.
Helpless and ould am I, alas! and poor;

No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;
All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche.'

'Varlet,' replyd the Abbatte, 'cease your dinne! This is no season almes and prayers to give.

Mie porter never lets a faitour in;

None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.'

And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,

And shettynge on the ground his glairie raie:

The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde

awaie.

Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde: Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen, Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; A Limitoure he was of order seene.

And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.

'An almes, sir priest!' the droppynge pilgrim sayde, 'For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake!' The Limitoure then loosened his pouche threade, And did thereoute a groate of silver take: The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. 'Here, take this silver; it maie eathe thie care: We are Goddes stewards all, nete of our owne we bare.

'But ah, unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. Here, take my semecope-thou arte bare, I see; 'Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.' He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.

Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power!

THOMAS DAY

FROM THE DESOLATION OF AMERICA

I see, I see, swift bursting through the shade,
The cruel soldier, and the reeking blade.
And there the bloody cross of Britain waves,
Pointing to deeds of death an host of slaves.
To them unheard the wretched tell their pain,
And every human sorrow sues in vain:
Their hardened bosoms never knew to melt;
Each woe unpitied, and each pang unfelt.—
See! where they rush, and with a savage joy,
Unsheathe the sword, impatient to destroy.

Fierce as the tiger, bursting from the wood,
With famished jaws, insatiable of blood!

Yet, yet a moment, the fell steel restrain;
Must Nature's sacred ties all plead in vain?
Ah! while your kindred blood remains unspilt,
And Heaven allows an awful pause from guilt,
Suspend the war, and recognize the bands,
Against whose lives you arm your impious hands!—
Not these, the boast of Gallia's proud domains,
Nor the scorched squadrons of Iberian plains;
Unhappy men! no foreign war you wage,
In your own blood you glut your
frantic rage;
And while you follow where oppression leads,
At every step, a friend, or brother, bleeds.

Devoted realm! what now avails thy claim,
To milder virtue, or sublimer flame?
Or what avails, unhappy land! to trace
The generous labours of thy patriot race?
Who, urged by fate, and fortitude their guide,
On the wild surge their desperate fortune tried;
Undaunted every toil and danger bore,
And fixed their standards on a savage shore;
What time they fled, with an averted eye,
The baneful influence of their native sky,
Where slowly rising through the dusky air,
The northern meteors shot their lurid glare.
In vain their country's genius sought to move,
With tender images of former love,

Sad rising to their view, in all her charms,
And weeping wooed them to her well-known arms.
The favoured clime, the soft domestic air,
And wealth and ease were all below their care,
Since there an hated tyrant met their eyes
And blasted every blessing of the skies.

*

And now, no more by nature's bounds confined
He spreads his dragon pinions to the wind.
The genius of the West beholds him near,
And freedom trembles at her last barrier.
* The monster, tyranny.

In vain she deemed in this sequestered seat
To fix a refuge for her wandering feet;
To mark one altar sacred to her fame,
And save the ruins of the human name.

Lo! Britain bended to the servile yoke,
Her fire extinguished, and her spirit broke,
Beneath the pressure of [a tyrant's] sway,
Herself at once the spoiler and the prey,
Detest[s] the virtues she can boast no more
And envies every right to every shore!
At once to nature and to pity blind,
Wages abhorred war with humankind;
And wheresoe'er her ocean rolls his wave,
Provokes an enemy, or meets a slave.

But free-born minds inspired with noble flame,
Attest their origin, and scorn the claim.
Beyond the sweets of pleasure and of rest,
The joys which captivate the vulgar breast;
Beyond the dearer ties of kindred blood;
Or brittle life's too transitory good;
The sacred charge of liberty they prize,
That last, and noblest, present of the skies.

Yet, gracious Heaven! though clouds may intervene,
And transitory horrors shade the scene;
Though for an instant virtue sink depressed,
While vice exulting rears her bloody crest;
Thy sacred truth shall still inspire my mind,
To cast the terrors of my fate behind!

Thy power which nature's utmost bound pervades,
Beams through the void, and cheers destruction's shades,
Can blast the laurel on the victor's head,

And smooth the good man's agonizing bed,

To songs of triumph change the captive's groans,

And hurl the powers of darkness from their thrones!

GEORGE CRABBE

FROM THE LIBRARY

When the sad soul, by care and grief oppressed,
Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;
When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too;
Where shall affliction from itself retire?
Where fade away and placidly expire?
Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain;

Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain:
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,

Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream;
For when the soul is labouring in despair,

In vain the body breathes a purer air.

Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find;
The curious here, to feed a craving mind;
Here the devout their peaceful temple choose;
And here the poet meets his fav'ring Muse.
With awe, around these silent walks I tread;
These are the lasting mansions of the dead:-
'The dead!' methinks a thousand tongues reply,
"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!
Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime,
And laugh at all the little strife of time.'

Lo! all in silence, all in order stand,
And mighty folios first, a lordly band;
Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain,
And light octavos fill a spacious plain:
See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,
A humbler band of duodecimos;

While undistinguished trifles swell the scene,
The last new play and frittered magazine.

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But who are these, a tribe that soar above,
And tell more tender tales of modern love?

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