He was their bulwark, their paves, and their wall, Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal. I say, ye commoners, why wer ye so stark mad Where was your wit and reson, ye shuld have had ? Ye armed you with will, and left your wit behynd; He was your chyfteyne, your shelde, your chef defence, Your worship depended of his excellence: Alas! ye mad men, to far ye did excede: The grounde of his quarel was for his sovereyn lord, To the right of his prince which shold not be withstand; But had his nobill men done wel that day, Ye had not been hable to have saide him nay. But ther was fals packinge, or els I am begylde : Bot men say they wer lynked with a double chayn, Whiche kindeled the wyld fyre that made all this smoke. The commouns renyed ther taxes to pay Of them demaunded and asked by the kinge; With one voice importune, they playnly said nay: They buskt them on a bushment themself in baile to bringe : Agayne the kings plesure to wrastle or to wringe, Bluntly as bestis withe hoste and with cry They saide, they forsede not, nor carede not to dy. The noblenes of the northe this valiant lorde and knyght, And, lyke marciall Hector, he fauht them agayne, Barons, knights, squyers, one and alle, Togeder with servaunts of his famuly, Turnd their backis, and let ther master fall, Take up whos wolde for them, they let hym ly. Alas! his golde, his fee, his annuall rente Upon suche a sort was ille bestowde and spent. He was envyronde aboute on every syde Withe his enemys, that were stark mad and wode; Yet whils he stode he gave them woundes wyde: Alas for routhe! what thouche his mynde were goode, His corage manly, yet ther he shed his bloode ! All left alone, alas! he fawte in vayne; For cruelly amonge them ther he was slayne. Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt, O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war! O dolorous teusday, dedicate to thy name, When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar! O Atropos, of the fatall systers thre, Goddes mooste cruell unto the lyf of man, All merciles, in the ys no pite! O homycide, whiche sleest all that thou kan, My wordis unpnllysht be nakide and playne, Of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge. Paregall to dukis, with kings he myght compare, What nedethe me for to extoll his fame With my rude pen enkankerd all with rust? His noble blode never disteynyd was, Treytory and treson he bannesht out of syght, If the hole quere of the musis nyne In me all onely wer sett and comprisyde, Of laureat Phebus holy the eloquence, O yonge lyon, bot tender yet of age, And geve the grace to be more fortunate, 1 pray God sende the prosperous lyf and long, Wythe hevy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd, Eche man may sorow in his inward thought, 'Thys lords death, whose pere is hard to fynd Allgyf Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught. Al kings, all princes, all dukes, well they ought Bothe temporall and spirituall for to complayne This noble man, that crewelly was slayne. More specially barons, and those knygtes bold, In fee, as menyall men of his housold, Whom he as lord worsheply manteynd: To sorowful weping they ought to be constreynd, As oft as thei call to ther remembraunce, Of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce. O perlese prince of hevyn emperyalle, That with one worde formed al thing of noughte; Hevyn, hell, and erth obey unto thi kall; Which to thy resemblance wondersly hast wrought All mankynd whom thou full dere hast boght, With thy blode precious our finaunce thou dyd pay, And us redemed, from the fendys pray: To the pray we, as prince incomperable, As thou art of mercy and pite the well, The sowle of this lorde from all daunger of hell, In thy palace above the orient, Where thou art lorde, and God omnipotent. O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace, To pardon thy servant, and bringe to salvacion. In joy triumphaunt the hevenly yerarchy, Thorowe bounte of hym that formed all solace: DESCRIPTION BY DR. JOHNSON OF DURHAM CASTLE AND CATHEDRAL; EXTRACTED FROM A LETTER BY HIM TO MRS. THRALE, DATED 12, AUGUST, 1773. "THE next Stage brought us to Durham, a place of which Mr. Thrale bad me take particular notice. The Bishop's palace has the appearance of an old feudal castle, built upon an eminence, and looking down upon the river, upon which was formerly a draw-bridge, as I suppose, to be raised at night, lest the Scots should possess it. The Cathedral has a massyness and solidity such as I have seen in no other place; it rather awes than pleases, as it strikes with a kind of gigantic dignity, and aspires to no other praise than that of rocky solidity and undeterminate duration." |