Kyng Estmere he light off his steede, The frothe that came from his bridle bitte, Sayes, "Stable thy steede, thou proud harpér, It doth not become a proud harpér, "My ladde he is so lither," he sayd, He will do nought that's meete, And that I could but find the man, aye Were able him to beate." "Thou speakest proud wordes," sayd the paynim kyng, "Thou harper, here to me; There is a man within this halle, That will beate thy ladd and thee." "O lett that man come down," he sayd, And when he hath beaten well my ladd, Down then came the kemperye man, For all the golde that was under heaven, "And how nowe, kempe," sayd the Kyng of Spayn, He sayes, "It is writen in his forehead, All, and in gramaryé, That for alle the golde that is under heaven, I dare not neigh him nye." Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe, Upstarte the ladye from the kyng, As he sate att the meate. "Now staye thy harpe, thou proud harpér, He struck upon his harpe agayne, She laughed loud laughters three. "Now sell me thy harpe," said the Kyng of Spayn, Thy harpe and stryngs eche one, And as many gold nobles thou shalt have As there be stryngs thereon." "And what wolde ye doe with my harpe?" he sayd, "If I did sell it yee?" "To playe my wyfe and I a fitt, When we together be." "Nowe sell me, Sir Kyng, thy bryde soe gay, As she sits laced in pall, And as many gold nobles I will give, As there be ryngs in the hall.” "And what wolde ye doe with my bryde soe gay "More seemly it is for that fair ladye To wed with me than thee." He played agayne both loud and shrille, "O ladye, this is thy owne true love, "O ladye, this is thy owne true love, The ladye lookt and the lady blusht, Up then rose the kemperye men, 66 And loud they gan to crye: Ah, traytors! yee have slayne our kyng, And therefore ye shall dye." Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde, And Estmere he, and Adler yonge, Right stiff in stour can stand. And aye their swordes soe sore can byte, Through help of gramaryé, That soon they have slayne the kemperye men, Or forst them forth to flee. King Estmere took that fayre ladye, And married her to his wyfe, And brought her home to merry England. I must not, however, attempt to quote more of those fine old ballads here: the feuds of the Percy and the Douglas would take up too much space; so would the Loves of King Arthur's Court, and the Adventures of Robin Hood. Even the story of the Heir of Lynne must remain untold; and I must content myself with two of the shortest and least hack neyed poems in a book that for great and varied interest can hardly be surpassed. "The Lie," is said to have been written by Sir Walter Raleigh the night before his execution. That it was written at that exact time is pretty well disproved by the date of its publication in "Davidson's Poems," before Sir Walter's death; it is even uncertain that Raleigh was the author; but that it is of that age is beyond all doubt; so is its extraordinary beauty-a beauty quite free from the conceits which deform too many of our finest old lyrics. Go, Soul, the body's guest, Go tell the Court it glows Tell potentates they live Not strong but by their factions: Tell men of high condition And if they once reply, Tell them that brave it most, Seek nothing but commending: Tell zeal it lacks devotion; And wish them not reply, Teil age it daily wasteth; Tell honour how it alters; Tell wit how much it wrangles Tell physic of her boldness; Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell justice of delay: And if they dare reply, Tell arts they have no soundness, Tell schools they want profoundness, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; So when thou hast, as I Commandeth thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing, Yet stab at thee who will, WINIFREDA. About the authorship of this beautiful address to conjugal love, there is also much uncertainty. Bishop Percy calls it a Translation from the Antient British," probably to veil the real writer. We find it included among Gilbert Cooper's poems, a diamond amongst pebbles; he never could have written it. It has been claimed for Steevens, who did the world good service as one of the earliest restorers of Shakespeare's text; but who is almost as famous for his bitter and cynical temper as for his acuteness as a verbal critic. Could this charming love-song, true in its tenderness as the gushing notes of a bird to his sitting mate, have been poured forth by a man whom the whole world agreed in hating? After all, we have no need to meddle with this vexed question. Let us be content to accept thankfully one of the very few purely English ballads which contradict the reproach of our Scottish and Irish neighbours, when they tell us that our love-songs are of the head not of the heart. This poem, at least, may vie with those of Gerald Griffin in the high and rare merit of conveying the noblest sentiments in the simplest language. Away! let nought to love displeasing, Our name, while virtue thus we tender, What though from fortune's lavish bounty Still shall each kind returning seasou And that's the only life to live. Through youth to age in love excelling, |