William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Bristowe TragedieThomas Chatterton (17521770)
T
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne:
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven’s crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.
That syttes enthron’d on hyghe!
Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die.’
Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymn waite;
‘Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie
Hee leaves thys mortall state.’
With harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey’d to the castle-gate,
And to Syr Charles dydd goe.
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.
‘Badde tydyngs I doe brynge.’
‘Speke boldlie, manne,’ sayd brave Syr Charles,
‘Whatte says the traytor kynge?’
Does fromme the welkin flye,
Hee hathe uponne hys honour sworne,
Thatt thou shalt surelie die.’
‘Of thatte I’m not affearde;
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?
Thanke Jesu, I’m prepar’d:
I’de sooner die to-daie
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
Though I shoulde lyve for aie.’
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate.
And fell down onne hys knee;
‘I’m come,’ quod hee, ‘unto your grace
To move your clemencye.’
You have been much oure friende;
Whatever youre request may bee
Wee wylle to ytte attende.’
Ys for a nobile knyghte,
Who, though mayhap hee has donne wronge,
Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte:
Alle rewyn’d are for aie;
Yff that you are resolved to lett
Charles Bawdin die to-daie.’
The kynge ynn furie sayde;
‘Before the evening starre doth sheene,
Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:
And hee shalle have hys meede:
Speke, maister Canynge! Whatte thynge else
Att present doe you neede?’
‘Leave justice to our Godde,
And laye the yronne rule asyde;
Be thyne the olyve rodde.
The best were synners grete;
Christ’s vycarr only knowes ne synne,
Ynne alle thys mortall state.
’Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;
From race to race thye familie
Alle sov’reigns shall endure:
Beginne thy infante reigne,
Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows
Wylle never long remayne.’
Has scorn’d my power and mee;
Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne
Entreate my clemencye?’
Wylle valorous actions prize;
Respect a brave and nobile mynde,
Although ynne enemies.’
Thatt dydd mee being gyve,
I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade
Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.
Thys sunne shall be hys laste.’
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,
And sat hymn downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.
‘Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;
Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate
Of all wee mortall menne.
Runns overr att thyne eye;
Is ytte for my most welcome doome,
Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?’
Thatt thou soe soone must dye,
And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;
’Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.’
From godlie fountaines sprynge;
Dethe I despise, and alle the power
Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.
I shall resigne my lyfe,
The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde
For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.
Thys was appointed mee;
Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge
What Godde ordeynes to bee?
Whan thousands dy’d arounde;
Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
Imbrew’d the fatten’d grounde:
That cutte the airie waie,
Myghte notte fynde passage toe my harte,
And close myne eyes for aie?
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?
No! fromme my herte flie childyshe feere,
Bee alle the manne display’d.
And guard thee and thye sonne,
Yff ’tis hys wylle; but yff ’tis nott,
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.
To serve Godde and mye prynce;
And thatt I no tyme-server am,
My dethe wylle soone convynce.
Of parents of grete note;
My fadre dydd a nobile armes
Emblazon onne hys cote:
Where soone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever shall bee blest,
From oute the reech of woe.
Wyth pitie to unite;
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
The wronge cause fromme the ryghte:
To feede the hungrie poore,
Ne lett mye servants dryve awaie
The hungrie fromme my doore:
I have hys wordyes kept;
And summ’d the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyghte before I slept.
Yff I defyl’d her bedde?
I have a kynge, and none can laie
Black treason onne my hedde.
Fromme fleshe I dydd refrayne;
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay’d
To leave thys worlde of payne?
I shall ne see thye dethe;
Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause
Doe I resign my brethe.
Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle Richard’s sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.
And godlie Henrie’s reigne,
Thatt you dyd choppe your easie daies
For those of bloude and peyne?
And mangled by a hynde,
I doe defye the traytor’s power,
Hee can ne harm my mynd;
Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
And ne ryche monument of brasse
Charles Bawdin’s name shall bear;
Whyche tyme can’t eate awaie,
There wythe the servants of the Lord
Mye name shall lyve for aie.
I leave thys mortall lyfe:
Farewell vayne world, and alle that’s deare,
Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!
As e’er the moneth of Maie;
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.’
To bee prepar’d to die;
And from thys world of peyne and grefe
To Godde ynne heaven to flie.’
And claryonnes to sound;
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde:
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
Ynne quiet lett mee die;
Praie Godde, thatt every Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.
Untoe the lande of blysse;
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande’s love,
Receive thys holie kysse.’
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
‘Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!
Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thy necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.’
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd saie:
Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,
And ynne theyre hertes hym love:
Thatt I theyre fader runne;
Florence! shou’d dethe thee take—adieu!
Yee officers, leade onne.’
And dydd her tresses tere;
‘Oh staie, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!’
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
Shee fellen onne the flore;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,
And march’d fromme oute the dore.
Wythe lookes full brave and swete;
Lookes, thatt enshone ne more concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde:
Appeared to the syghte,
Alle cladd ynne homelie russet weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun’d the strunge bataunt.
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of Kynge Henrie’s friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.
Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde,
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:
Of archers stronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marchèd ynne goodlie route;
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun’d the strunge bataunt:
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck’t;
And theyre attendynge mene echone,
Lyke easterne princes trickt:
Of citizenns dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
‘O thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Washe mye soule clean thys daie!’
The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys most welcom fate.
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare:
Expos’d to infamie;
Butt bee assur’d, disloyall manne!
I’m greaterr nowe thanne thee.
Thou wearest nowe a crowne;
And hast appoynted mee to die,
By power nott thyne owne.
I have beene dede ’till nowe,
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
For aie uponne my browe:
Shalt rull thys fickle lande,
To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
’Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
Shall falle onne thye owne hedde’—
Fromme out of hearyng of the kynge
Departed thenne the sledde.
Hee turn’d hys hedde awaie,
And to hys broder Gloucester
Hee thus dydd speke and saie:
Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,
Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,
Hee’s greater thanne a kynge!’
‘And maye echone oure foes
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe
And feede the carryon crowes.’
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
His pretious bloude to spylle.
As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val’rous chiefs
Gayn’d ynne the bloudie warre:
‘Beholde you see mee dye,
For servynge loyally mye kynge,
Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.
Ne quiet you wylle knowe:
Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne
And brookes wythe bloude shall flowe.
Whenne ynne adversitye;
Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
And for the true cause dye.’
A prayer to Godde dyd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partunge soule to take.
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke.
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
And teares, enowe to washe’t awaie,
Dydd flow fromme each manne’s eyne.
Ynnto foure partes cutte;
And every parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crowen dydd devoure;
A dreery spectacle;
Hys hedde was plac’d onne the hyghe crosse,
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.
Godde prosper longe oure kynge,
And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin’s soule,
Ynne heaven Godd’s mercie synge!