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BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

In printing the first of these poems two copies have been made use of, both taken from copies of Chatterton's handwriting, the one by Mr. Catcott, and the other by Mr. Barrett. The principal difference between them is at the end, where the latter has fourteen lines from ver. 550, which are wanting in the former. The second poem is printed from a single copy, made by Mr. Barrett from one in Chatterton's hand-writing. It should be observed, that the poem marked No. 1, was given to Mr. Barrett by Chatterton with the following title: "Battle of Hastings, wrote by Turgot the Monk, a Saxon, in the tenth century, and translated by Thomas Rowlie, parish preeste of St. John's in the city of Bristol, in the year 1465.-The remainder of the poem I have not been happy enough to meet with." Being afterwards prest by Mr. Barrett to produce any part of this poem in the original hand-writing, he at last said that he wrote this poem himself for a friend; but that he had another, the copy of an original by Rowley: and being then desired to produce that other poem, he, after a considerable interval of time, brought to Mr. Barrett the poem marked No. 2, as far as ver. 530 incl. with the following title; "Battle of Has

tyngs by Turgotus, translated by Roulie for W. Canynge, Esq." The lines from ver. 531 incl. were brought some time after, in consequence of Mr. Barrett's repeated solicitations for the conclusion of the poem.

(No. 1.)

O CHRYSTE, it is a grief for me to telle,
How manie a nobil erle and valrous knyghte
In fyghtynge for kynge Harrold noblie fell,
Al sleyne in Hastyngs feeld in bloudie fyghte.
O sea! our teeming donore, han thy floude,
Han anie fructuous entendement,
[bloude,
Thou wouldst have rose and sank wyth tydes of
Before duke Wyllyam's knyghts han hither went;
Whose cowart arrows manie erles sleyne,
And brued the feeld wyth bloude as season
rayne.

And of his knyghtes did eke full manie die,
All passing hie, of mickle myghte echone,
Whose poygnant arrowes, typp'd with destynie,
Caus'd manie wydowes to make myckle mone.
Lordynges, avaunt, that chycken-harted are,
From out of hearynge quicklie now departe;
Full well I wote, to synge of bloudie warre
Will greeve your tenderlie and mayden harte.
Go, do the weaklie womman inn mann's geare,
And scond your mansion if grymm war come
there.

Soone as the erlie maten belle was tolde,
And Sonne was come to byd us all good daie,

Bothe armies on the feeld, both brave and bolde,
Prepar'd for fyghte in champyon arraie.

As when two bulles, destynde for Hocktide fyghte,
Are yoked bie the necke within a sparre,
Theie rend the erthe, and travellyrs affryghte,
Lackynge to gage the sportive bloudie warre;

Soe lacked Harroldes menne to come to blowes,
The Normans lacked for to wielde their bowes.

Kynge Harrolde turnynge to hys leegemen spake ;
My merrie men, be not caste downe in mynde;
Your onlie lode for aye to mar or make,

Before yon Sunne has donde his welke you'll fynde.
Your lovynge wife, who erst dyd rid the londe
Of Lurdanes, and the treasure that you han,
Wyll falle into the Normanne robber's honde,
Unlesse with honde and harte you plaie the manne.
Cheer up youre hartes, chase sorrowe far awaie,
Godde and seyncte Cuthbert be the worde to
daie.

And thenne duke Wyllyam to his knyghtes did saie;

My merrie menne, be bravelie everiche;

Gif I do gayn the honore of the daie,
Ech one of you I wyll make myckle riche.
Beer you in mynde, we for a kyngdomm fyghte:
Lordshippes and honores echone shall possesse;
Be this the worde to daie, God and my ryghte;
Ne doubte but God will oure true cause blesse.

The clarions then sounded sharpe and shrille;
Deathdoeynge blades were out intent to kille.

And brave kyng Harrolde had nowe donde his saie; He threwe wythe myghte amayne hys shorte horsespear,

The noise it made the duke to turn awaie,
And hytt his knyghte, de Beque, upon the ear.
His cristede beaver dyd him smalle abounde;
The cruel speare went thorough all his hede;
The purpel bloude came goushynge to the grounde,
And at duke Wyllyam's feet he tumbled deade :
So fell the myghtie tower of Standrip, whenne
It felte the furie of the Danish menne.

O Afflem, son of Cuthbert, holie sayncte,
Come ayde thy freend, and shewe duke Wyllyam's
payne;

Take up thy pencyl, all his features paincte;
Thy coloryng excells a synger strayne.

Duke Wyllyam sawe his freende sleyne piteouslie,
His lovynge freende whome he muche honored,
For he han lovd hym from puerilitie,

And theie together bothe han bin ybred :

O! in duke Wyllyam's harte it raysde a flame,
To which the rage of emptie wolves is tame.

He tooke a brazen crosse-bowe in his honde,
And drewe it harde wyth all hys myghte amein,
Ne doubtyng but the bravest in the londe
Han by his soundynge arrow-lede* bene sleyne.
Alured's stede, the fynest stede alive,

Bye comlie forme knowlached from the rest;
But nowe his destind howre dyd aryve,
The arrowe hyt upon his milk white breste :
So have I seen a ladie-smock soe white, [night.
Blown in the mornynge, and mowd downe at

* One commentator supposes that this means the path of the arrow, from the Saxon lade, iter. profectiv. Dean Milles, that it may mean an arrow headed with lead, or that it is mispelled for arrow-hede. Either of these latter conjectures is probable.

With thilk a force it dyd his boddie gore,
That in his tender guttes it entered,

In veritee a full clothe yarde or more,

And downe with flaiten noyse he sunken dede.
Brave Alured, benethe his faithfull horse,
Was smeerd all over withe the gorie duste,
And on hym laie the recer's lukewarme corse,
That Alured coulde not hymself aluste.*

The standyng Normans drew theyr bowe echone, And broght full manie Englysh champyons downe.

The Normans kept aloofe, at distaunce stylle
The Englysh nete but short horse-spears could

welde;

The Englysh manie dethe-sure dartes did kille,
And manie arrowes twang'd upon the sheelde.
Kynge, Haroldes knyghts desir'de for hendie stroke,
And marched furious o'er the bloudie pleyne,
In bodie close, and made the pleyne to smoke;
Their sheelds rebounded arrowes back agaynne.
The Normans stode aloofe, nor hede the same,
Their arrowes woulde do dethe, tho' from far of
they came.

Duke Wyllyam drewe agen hys arrowe strynge,
An arrowe withe a sylver-hede drewe he;
The arrowe dauncynge in the ayre dyd synge,
And hytt the horse Tosselyn on the knee.
At this brave Tosslyn threwe his short horse-

speare;

Duke Wyllyam stooped to avoyde the blowe;

* Mr. Bryant and Mr. Tyrwhitt agree that this word has been put by a mistake of Chatterton's for ajuste.

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