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caused by the last act of his life? His sister says, that "he was a lover of truth from the earliest dawn of reason;" yet his life was one continued career of deception. He is to be pitied for his misfortunes, and admired for his genius; but, with Kirke White in our remembrance, we could wish to forget all else that belonged to Chat

many of his productions show a laxity of principle
which might justify the supposition. The best
qualities in his character were the negative ones
of temperance and affection for his family, to whom
he sent small presents out of his first gains, and
always spoke of their welfare as one of the princi-
pal ends of his exertions. But what deeper afflic-
tion could he have brought upon them than thatterton.



THE featherd songster chaunticleer

Han wounde hys bugle horne,

And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne:

Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte eclypse the greie ;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

"Thou'rt ryght," quod he, "for, by the Godde
That syttes enthroned on hyghe!
Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die."

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;
"Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie

Hee leaves thys mortall state."
Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe
Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,

Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

"O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."

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Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;

"I'm come," quod hee," unto your grace,
To move your clemencye."

"Thenne," quod the kynge," youre tale speke out,
You have been much oure friende :
Whatever youre request may bee,
Wee wylle to ytte attende."


My nobile leige! alle my request
Ys for a nobile knyghte,

Who, though may hap hee has donne wronge,
He thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte:

"Hee has a spouse and children twaine ;

Alle rewyn'd are for aie,

Yff that you are resolved to lett
Charles Bawdin die to-daie."

"Speke not of such a traytour vile,"
The kynge ynn furie sayde,
"Before the evening starre doth sheene,
Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:

"Justice does loudlie for hym calle,

And hee shalle have hys meede : Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else Att present doe you neede?"

"My nobile leige!" goode Canynge sayde,

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Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne,

"Whatte says the traytour kynge?"

"I greeve to telle: before yonne sonne Does fromme the welkinn flye,

Hee hath uppon hys honour sworne,

Thatt thou shalt surelie die."

"We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles, "Of thatte I'm not affearde;

Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?

Thanke Jesu, I'm prepared:

"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, I'de sooner die to-daie,

Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
Though I shoulde lyve for aie."

Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out,
To tell the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

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Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heaven
Thatt dydd mee being gyve

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade
Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

"By Marie, and alle seinctes ynne heaven,
Thys sunne shall be hys laste."
Thenne Canynge dropp'd a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.

Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles;
"Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;
Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate
Of all wee mortall menne.

"Say why, my friende, thie honest soul
Runns over att thyne eye;

Ys ytte for my most welcome doome
Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"

Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe,
Thatt thou so soone must die,

And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;
Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye."

"Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye
From godlie fountaines sprynge;
Dethe I despise, and alle the power
Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

"Whan through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resigne my lyfe,

The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde
For bothe my sonnes and wyfe.

"Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,
Thys was appointed mee;

Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge
What Godde ordeynes to bee?

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
Whan thousands dyed arounde;
Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde;

"Howe dydd I knowe thatt every darte,
Thatt cutte the airie waie,
Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,
And close myne eyes for aie ?

"And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,

Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?
Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere ;
Bee alle the manne display'd.

"Ah, goddelyke Henry! Godde forefende,
And guarde thee and thye sonne,
Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

My honest friende, my faulte has beene
To serve Godde and my prynce ;
And thatt I no tyme-server am,

My dethe wylle soone convynce.

"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,
Of parents of grete note;
My fadre dydd a nobile armes
Emblazon onne hys cote:

"I make no doubte butt hee ys gone, Where soone I hope to goe; Where wee for ever shall bee blest, From oute the reech of woe.

"Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
Wyth pitie to unite ;

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
The wronge cause from the ryghte:
"Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie poore,

Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie

The hungrie fromm my doore:

"And none can saye but alle mye lyfe
I have hys wordyes kept;
And summ'd the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyghte before I slept.

"I have a spouse, goe aske of her
Yff I defyled her bedde;

I have a kynge, and none can laie
Black treason onne my hedde.
"Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd
To leave thys worlde of payne?

"Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce
I shall ne see thye dethe;
Most willynglie ynne thye just cause
Doe I resign my brethe.

"Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe !
Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.
"Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace,

And godlie Henrie's reigne,
Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies
For those of bloude and peyne?

"Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, And mangled by a hynde,

I doe defye the traytour's power,
Hee can ne harm my mynde;
"Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole,
My lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
And ne ryche monument of brasse
Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ;
"Yett ynne the holie book above,

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie,
There wythe the sarvants of the Lord
Mye name shall lyve for aie.

"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortall lyfe :

Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!

"Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes
As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie."

Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlie thynge
To bee prepared to die;

And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe
To Godde ynne heaven to flie."

And nowe the belle began to tolle,
And claryonnes to sound;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

And just before the officers

His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
Ynn quiet lett mee die ;

Praie Godde that every Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

"Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers? Theye washe my soule awaie,

And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

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"Tys butt a journie I shalle goe
Untoe the lande of blysse;
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
Receive thys holie kysse."

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!
Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke :

"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."

And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Who turnedd to hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd saie:

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,
And ynne theyre hertes hym love:
"Teache them to runne the nobile race

Thatt I theyre fader runne;
Florence! should dethe thee take-adieu !
Yee officers, leade onne.

Thenne Florence raved as anie madde,
And dydd her tresses tere ;
"Oh, staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe !"-
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
"Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,
Shee fellen onne the floore;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
Wythe lookes fulle brave and sweete,
Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.

Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde :

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
Appeared to the syghte,

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume

Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tuned the strunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of Kynge Henrie's friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a cloth-ladye sledde,
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges whyte,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:
Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe
Of archers strong and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route :

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tuned the strunge bataunt:

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke easterne princes trick't:

And after them a multitude

Of citizenns dydd thronge;

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes
As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,

"O Thou thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Washe mye soule clean thys daie!"
Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat
The kynge ynne myckle state,

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge

To hys most welcom fate

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare :

"Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Exposed to infamie;

Butt bee assured, disloyall manne!

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou wearest nowe a crowne;
And hast appoynted mee to die,
By power nott thyne owne.

"Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie ;
I have beene dede till nowe,

And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
For aie uponne my browe:

"Whylst thou, perhapps, for some few yeares, Shalt rule thys fickle lande,

To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
"Twixt kynge and tyrante hande :

"Thye power unjust, thou traytour slave!
Shall falle onne thye owne hedde"-
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Departed thenne the sledde.

Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face,
Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie,
And to hys broder Gloucester
Hee thus dydd speke and saie:

To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe
Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,

Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,
Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"

"Soe lett hym die !" Duke Richarde sayde;
"And maye echone oure foes

Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
And feede the carryon crowes.'
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.

Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre

Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre:

And to the people hee dyd saie,
"Beholde you see mee dye,
For servynge loyally mye kynge,
Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe:

Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne. And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.

"You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,
Whenne ynne adversitye;

Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
And for the true cause dye."

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,
A prayer to Godde dyd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Thenne kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde,
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke:

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;

And teares, enow to washe't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each man's eyne.

The bloudie are hys bodie fayre

Ynnto foure partes cutte;
And everye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.

One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure:

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, A dreery spectacle ;

Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse,
Ynne hyghe strete most nobile.

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate
Godde prosper longe oure kynge,

And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule,
Ynne Heaven Godde's mercie synge!


O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne bee,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree :
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Harke, the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
Ynne the briered delle belowe ;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

See the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

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Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hendes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and alle yts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die I comme; mie true love waytes.— Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.


WILLIAM GIFFORD, the son of a plumber and glazier, who dissipated his property by intemperance and extravagance, was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in April, 1755. He lost his father when only twelve years of age, and in about a year afterward his mother died, leaving himself and an infant brother, "without a relation or friend in the world." The latter was sent to the workhouse, and the subject of our memoir was received into the house of his godfather, who put him to school for about three months, but at the end of that period took him home, with the view of employing him as a ploughboy. Being unfitted, however, for this occupation, by an injury on his breast, he was sent to sea in a coasting vessel, in which he remained for nearly a year. "It will be easily conceived," he says in his autobiography, "that my life was a life of hardship. I was not only a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast,' but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot; yet, if I was restless and discontented, I can safely say it was not so much on account of this, as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading; as my master did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing, during the whole time of my abode with him, a single book of any description, except the Coasting Pilot."

farthing on earth, nor a friend to give me one; pen, ink, and paper, therefore, (in despite of the flippant remark of Lord Orford,) were, for the most part, as completely out of my reach as a crown and sceptre. There was, indeed, a resource; but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying to it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as possible, and wrought my problems on them with a blunted awl; for the rest, my memory was tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent."

Under the same unfavourable circumstances, he composed and recited to his associates small pieces of poetry, and, being at last invited to repeat them to other circles, little collections were made for him, which, he says, sometimes produced him “as much as sixpence in an evening." The sums which he thus obtained, he devoted to the purchase of pens, paper, &c.; books of geometry, and of the higher branches of algebra; but his master, finding that he had, in some of the verses before mentioned, satirized both himself and his customers, seized upon his books and papers, and prohibited him from again repeating a line of his compositions. At length, in the sixth year of his apprenticeship, his lamentable doggerel, as he terms it, having reached the ears of Mr. Cookesley, a surgeon, that gentleman set on foot " a subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time of William Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in writing and English grammar."

He was at length recalled by his godfather, and again put to school, where he made such rapid progress, that in a few months he was qualified to assist his master in any extraordinary emergency; and, although only in his fifteenth year, began to He now quitted shoemaking, and entered the think of turning instructer himself. His plans school of the Rev. Thomas Smerdon; and in two were, however, treated with contempt by his years and two months from what he calls the day guardian, who apprenticed him to a shoemaker, at of his emancipation, he had made such progress, Ashburton, to whom our author went "in sullen- that his master declared him to be fit for the uniness and in silence," and with a perfect hatred of versity. He was accordingly sent by Mr. Cookeshis new occupation. His favourite pursuit at this ley to Oxford, where he obtained, by the exertions time was arithmetic, and the manner in which he of the same gentleman, the office of Bible reader continued to extend his knowledge of that science at Exeter College, of which he was entered a is thus related by himself: "I possessed," he ob- member. Here he pursued his studies with unreserves, " but one book in the world; it was a trea-mitting diligence, and had already commenced his tise on algebra, given to me by a young woman, who had found it in a lodging-house. I considered it as a treasure, but it was a treasure locked up; for it supposed the reader to be well acquainted with simple equations, and I knew nothing of the matter. My master's son had purchased Fenning's Introduction: this was precisely what I wanted; but he carefully concealed it from me, and I was indebted to chance alone for stumbling on his hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part of several nights successively; and, before he suspected his treatise was discovered, had completely mastered it. I could now enter upon my own: and that carried me pretty far into the science. This was not done without difficulty. I had not a

poetical translation of the Satires of Juvenal, when the death of Mr. Cookesley interrupted the progress of the work. A fortunate accident procured him a new patron in Earl Grosvenor, in whose family he for some time resided, and afterward accompanied to the continent his son, Lord Belgrave. On his return to England, he settled in London, and, devoting himself to literary pursuits, published, in 1791, and 1794, successively, his poetical satires, the Baviad, and the Mæviad; the one containing an attack on the drama, and the other an invective against the favourite poets of the day. In 1800, he published his Epistle to Peter Pindar, in which he charged the satirist with blasphemy; and Wolcot accused him of obscenity, This led to


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