Contents
-BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Eclogue: Robert and Raufe
Thomas Chatterton (17521770)
WHEN England, smoking from her deadly wound, | From her galled neck did pluck the chain away, | Knowing her lawful sons fall all around, | (Mighty they fell, ’twas honour led the fray); | Then in a dale, by eve’s dark mantle gray, | Two lonely shepherds did abrodden fly, | (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 y-spoke. Rob. | Ah, Raufe! if thus the hours do come along, | If thus we fly in chase of farther woe, | Our foot will fail; albeit we be strong, | Nor will our pace swift as our danger go. | To our great wrongs we have enhepèd moe. | The Barons’ war! Oh, woe and well-a-day! | I haveth life, but have escapèd so, | That life itself my senses do affray. | Oh Raufe, come list, and hear my dernie tale, | Come hear the baleful doom of Robin of the Dale. Raufe. | Say to me naught; I know thy woe in mine. | Oh! I’ve a tale that Sabalus might tell. | Sweet flowerets, mantled meadows, forests digne; | Gravots, far-seen, around the hermit’s cell, | The sweet ribible sounding in the dell, | The joyous dancing in the hoastrie court; | Eke the high song and every joy, farewell! | Farewell, the very shade of fair disport; | Annoying trouble on my head do come, | Nor one kind saint to ward the aye-increasing doom. Rob. | Oh! I could wail my kingcup-deckèd mees, | My spreading flocks of sheep of lily white, | My tender applynges, and embodyde trees, | My parker’s grange, far-spreading to the sight, | My tender cows, my bullocks strong in fight, | My garden whitened with the comfreie plant, | My flower Saint-Mary shooting with the light, | My store of all the blessings heaven can grant; | I am duressèd unto sorrow’s blow, | Accustomed to the pain, will let no salt tear flow. Raufe. | Here I will abide until death do ’pear, | Here, like a foul empoisoned deadly tree, | Which slayeth every one that cometh near, | So will I, fixèd unto this place, gre. | I to lament haveth more cause than thee; | Slain in the war my much-loved father lies; | Oh! joyous I his murderer would slea, | And by his side for aye enclose mine eyes. | Cast out from every joy, here will I bleed, | Fed is the ’cullis-gate of my heart’s castle-stead. Rob. | Our woes alike, alike our fate shall be. | My son, my only son, y-storven is; | Here will I stay, and end my life with thee; | A life like mine a burden is, I wis. | Now from e’en lodges fled is happiness, | Minsters alone can boast the holy saint. | Now doeth England wear a bloody dress, | And with her champions’ gore her face depeyncte, | Peace fled, disorder sheweth her dark rode, | And thórough air doth fly, in garments stained with blood.
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