The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall;
The sunburnt meadows smoke and drink the rain;
The coming ghastness doth the cattle appal,

And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain ;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters gush again;
The welkin opes, the yellow levin flies,

And the hot fiery steam in the wide flame-lowe2 dies.

3

List! now the thunder's rattling clamouring sound
Moves slowly on, and then upswollen clangs,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drown'd,
Still on the affrighted ear of terror hangs;
The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swangs;
Again the levin and the thunder pours,

And the full clouds are burst at once in stormy showers.

Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain,

The Abbot of Saint Godwyn's convent came;
His chapournette was drenched with the rain,
His painted girdle met with mickle shame ;
He backwards told his bederoll at the same.
The storm increasèd, and he drew aside,

4

With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide.

His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,

With a gold button fastened near his chin;
His autremete' was edged with golden twine,

And his peak'd shoe a lordling's might have been;
Full well it showed he counted cost no sin :
The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight,
For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.

1 Here Chatterton's text-word is 'flott,' and his gloss 'fly.' seems more appropriate.

2.
'lowings-flames.-Chatterton.

'Gush'

3 Clymmynge,' noisy.-Chatterton. Clamouring' is adopted as nearer in sound to his text-word.

To signify cursing.'-Chatterton.

'A loose white robe worn by priests.'-Chatterton.

Steevens, being in Bristol in 1776, saw horse-milliner' inscribed over a shop door, outside which stood a wooden horse decked with ribbons.

'An alms, Sir Priest!' the drooping pilgrim said,
'O let me wait within your convent-door
Till the sun shineth high above our head
And the loud tempest of the air is o'er.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor:
No house, nor friend, nor money in my pouch;
All that I call my own is this my silver crouch'.

'Varlet,' replied the Abbot, 'cease your din; This is no season alms and prayers to give ; My porter never lets a beggar in;

None touch my ring who not in honour live.'

And now the sun with the black clouds did strive, And shot upon the ground his glaring ray:

The Abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.

Once more the sky was black, the thunder roll'd:
Fast running o'er the plain a priest was seen,

Not dight full proud nor buttoned up in gold ;
His cope and jape2 were grey, and eke were clean;
A Limitour he was, of order seen;

And from the pathway side then turnèd he,

Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.

'An alms, Sir Priest,' the drooping pilgrim said, 'For sweet Saint Mary and your order's sake!' The Limitour then loosened his pouch-thread And did thereout a groat of silver take; The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake. 'Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care; We are God's stewards all,-nought of our own we bear.

'But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me, Scarce any give a rentroll to their Lord: Here, take my semicope,-thou'rt bare, I see;

1 'Cross, crucifix.'-Chatterton.

2 A short surplice worn by friars of inferior class.-Chatterton.

A licensed begging friar.-Chatterton,

'Tis thine; the Saints will give me my reward!'

He left the pilgrim and his way aborde'.

Virgin and holy Saints who sit in gloure2,

Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!

ECLOGUE THE FIRST.

3

When England, reeking from her deadly wound,
From her galled neck did pluck the chain away,
Kenning her liegeful sons fall all around,

(Mighty they fell,-'twas Honour led the fray,) Then in a dale, by eve's dark surcote grey, Two lonely shepherds did abrodden fly,

4

(The rustling leaf doth their white hearts affray,) And with the owlet trembled and did cry.

First Robert Neatherd his sore bosom stroke,
Then fell upon the ground, and thus yspoke.

Robert.

'Ah, Ralph! if thus the hours do come along,
It thus we fly in chase of further woe,
Our feet will fail, albeit we be strong,

Nor will our pace swift as our danger go.
To our great wrongs we have upheapèd moe,—
The Barons' war! Ah, woe and well-a-day!

My life I have, but have escaped so

That life itself my senses doth affray.

O Ralph! come list, and hear my gloomy' tale,
Come hear the baleful doom of Robin of the Dale.

Ralph.

Say to me nought; I ken thy woe in mine,

6

Oh! I've a tale that Sathanas might tell! Sweet flowerets, mantled meadows, forests fine,Groves far-off-kenn'd around the Hermit's cell,

The sweet-strung viol' dinning in the dell,The joyous dancing in the hostel-court,

Eke the high song and every joy,—farewell!
Farewell the very shade of fair disport!

Impestering trouble on my head doth come :-
No one kind Saint to ward the aye-increasing doom!
Robert.

Oh! I could wail my kingcup-deckèd leas,
My spreading flocks of sheep all lily-white,
My tender applings and embodied trees,

My parker's-grange far spreading to the sight,
My tender kyne, my bullocks strong in fight,
My garden whitened with the cumfrey-plant,
My flower-Saint-Mary 2 glinting with the light,
My store of all the blessings Heaven can grant.
I am enhardened unto sorrow's blow:

Inured unto the pain, I let no salt tear flow.
Ralph.

Here will I still abide till Death appear;
Here, like a foul-empoisoned deadly tree
Which slayeth every one that cometh near,
So will I grow to this place fixedly 1.
I to lament have greater cause than thee,
Slain in the war my dear-loved father lies.

Oh! I would slay his murderer joyously,
And by his side for aye close up mine eyes.
Cast out from every joy, here will I bleed ;
Fall'n is the cullis-gate of my heart's castle-stead.

6

Robert.

Our woes alike, alike our doom shall be,

My son, mine only son, all death-cold is! Here will I stay and end my life with thee,— A life like mine a burden is, I wis.

1 'Swote ribible,' sweet violin.-Chatter:on.

'Hantend,' accustomed.-Chatterton.

2

Marygold.-Chatterton

Soe wille I, fyxed unto thys piace, gre.'- Chatterton. Oh! joicous I hys mortherer would slea.'-Chatterton. Portcullis.-Chatterton.

76

Ystorven,' dead-Chatterton.

Even from the cot flown now is happiness: Minsters alone can boast the holy Saint:

Now doth our England' wear a bloody dress, And with her champions' gore her visage paint. Peace fled, Disorder shows her face dark-brow'd, And through the air doth fly in garments stained with blood.

ECLOGUE THE THIRD.

A Man; a Woman; Sir Roger.

Wouldst thou ken Nature in her better part?
Go, search the cots and lodges of the hind;
If they have any, it is rough-made art;

In them you see the naked form of kind.
Haveth your mind a liking of a mind?
Would it ken everything as it might be?

Would it hear phrase of vulgar from the hind,
Without wiseacre words and knowledge free?
If so, read this, which I disporting penn'd:
If nought beside, its rhyme may it commend.

Man.

But whither, fair maid, do ye go?
O where do ye bend your way?

I will know whither you go,

I will not be answered nay.

Woman.

To Robin and Nell, all down in the dell,
To help them at making of hay.

Man.

Sir Roger, the parson, hath hired me there;

Come, come, let us trip it away:

We'll work, and we'll sing, and we'll drink of strong beer,
As long as the merry summer's day.

'Doeth Englonde.'-Chatterton.

2 Peace fledde, disorder sheweth her dark rode.' ('Rode,' complexion.) -Chatterton.