When Dacia's sons, with hairs of blood-red hue, Like kingcups bursting with the morning dew, Arranged in drear array,

Upon the lethal day,

Spread far and wide on Watchet's shore,
Then didst thou furious stand,

And by thy valiant hand
Besprengèd all the mees with gore.

Drawn by thine anlace1 fell
Down to the depths of hell
Thousands of Dacians went;
Bristowans, men of might,
Ydared the bloody fight,
And acted deeds full quaint.

Oh thou, where'er (thy bones at rest)
Thy spirit to haunt delighteth best,
Whether upon the blood-imbruèd plain,
Or where thou kenst from far
The dismal cry of war,

Or seest some mountain made of corse of slain;
Or seest the hatchèd2 steed

Yprancing on the meed,

And neigh to be among the pointed spears;
Or in black armour stalk around
Embattled Bristowe, once thy ground,
And glow ardúrous3 on the castle stairs,
Or fiery round the minster glare,
Let Bristowe still be made thy care.

1 Sword.

2 Accoutred.

3 All blazing.

Guard it from foemen and consuming fire;
Like Avon's stream encirc it round;
Ne let a flame enharm the ground,

Till in one flame all the whole world expire.”

From this piece of powerful imagination turn to the following exquisitely dainty little song, supposed to be sung for the entertainment of Birtha by one of Ella's minstrels. The song, though introduced into Ælla, purports to be by Sir Tibbot Gorges, and not by Rowley :

"As Elinour by the green lessel was sitting

As from the sun's heatè she harried,

She said, as her white hands white hosen was knitting, 'What pleasure it is to be married!

'My husband, lord Thomas, a forester bold
As ever clove pin or the basket,1
Does no cherisaunces from Elinour hold;
I have it as soon as I ask it.

When I lived with my father in merry Cloud-dell,
Tho' 'twas at my lief to mind spinning,

I still wanted something, but what ne could tell,
My lord-father's barb'd hall han ne winning.2

'Each morning I rise do I set my maidens,
Some to spin, some to cardle, some bleaching;
Gif any new entered do ask for mine aidens,
Then swithen you find me a-teaching.

1 Marks in archery.

2 Had no charms.

3 Straightway.

'Lord Walter, my father, he loved me well,
And nothing unto me was needing;
But, should I again go to merry Cloud-dell,
In soothen 'twould be without reding."1

She said, and lord Thomas came over the lea,
As he the fat deerkins was chasing;

She put by her knitting, and to him went she:
So we leave them both kindly embracing."

The following, in another strain, is also one of the lyrics sung by the minstrels in Ella. It is the song of a bereaved maiden :

"O, sing unto my roundelay;

O, drop the briny tear with me;
Daunce ne moe at halie-day;
Like a running river be.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Black his crine2 as the winter-night,
White his rood3 as the summer snow,
Rud his face as the morning light;
Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be ;

Deft his tabour, cudgel stout;

O, he lies by the willow-tree.

1 Advice.

Hair.

3 Neck.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briared dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See the white moon shines on high;

Whiter is my true love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning-sky,
Whiter than the evening-cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;

Ne one halie saint to save

All the celness1 of a maid.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent the briars Round his halie corse to gree; Ouphant, fairy, light your fires; Here my body still shall be.

1 Coldness.

• Fasten.

3 Elfin.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn-cup and thorn ;
Drain my heartè's blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Water witches, crowned with raits,1
Bear me to your lethal tide:

I die! I come! my true love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died."

But perhaps the grandest thing in all Chatterton is his fragmentary Ode to Liberty in his Tragedy of Godwin. We know nothing finer of its kind in the whole range of English poetry. A Chorus is supposed to sing the song; which is throughout, it will be seen, a burst of glorious and sustained personification :—

When Freedom, drest in blood-stained vest,
To every knight her war-song sung,
Upon her head wild weeds were spread,

A gory anlace by her hung.

She danced on the heath;

She heard the voice of Death;