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
What frantyk frensy fyll in youre brayne?

Where was your wit and reson, ye shuld have had ?
What willfull foly made yow to ryse agayne
Your naturall lord? alas! I can not fayne.

Ye armed you with will, and left your wit behynd;
Well may you be called comones most unkynd.

He was your chyfteyne, your shelde, your chef defence,
Redy to assyst you in every tyme of nede:

Your worship depended of his excellence :

Alas! ye mad men, to far ye did excede :
Your hap was unhappy, to ill was your spede :
What movyd you agayn hym to war or fight?
What aylde you to sle your lord agyn all right?

The grounde of his quarel was for his sovereyn lord,
The welle concernyng of all the hole lande,
Demaundyng soche dutyes as nedis most acord

To the right of his prince which shold not be withstand;
For whos cause ye slew hym with your awne hande:

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 :

How-be-it the matter was evident and playne,
For yf they had occupied ther spere and ther shelde,
This noble man doutles had not be slayne.

Bot men say they wer lynked with a double chayn,
And held with the commouns under a cloke,

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,
As man that was innocent of trechery or trayne,
Presed forthe boldly to witstand the myght,

And, lyke marciall Hector, he fauht them agayne,
Vigorously upon them with myght and with mayne,
Trustinge in noble men that wer with hym there:
Bot all they fled from hym for falshode or fere.

Barons, knights, squyers, one and alle,

Togeder with servaunts of his famuly,

Turnd their backis, and let ther master fall,
Of whos [life] they counted not a flye;

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,
The famous Erle of Northumberlande:
Of knightly prowès the sworde pomel and hylt,
The myghty lyoun doutted by se and lande!
O dolorous chaunce of fortuns fruward hande!
What man remembring how shamfully he was slayne,
From bitter weepinge hymself kan restrayne ?

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 grounde ungracious, unhappy be thy fame,
Whiche wert endyed with rede blode of the same!
Moste noble erle! O fowle mysuryd grounde
Whereon he gat his fynal dedely wounde!

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,
So forcibly upon this erle thow ran,
That with thy sworde enharpid of mortall drede,
Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

My wordis unpallysht be nakide and playne,
Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge;
Bot by them to knoulege ye may attayne

Of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge.
Which whils he lyvyd had fuyson of every thing,
Of knights, of squyers, chef lord of toure and toune,
Tyl fykkill fortune began on hym to frowne,

Paregall to dukis, with kings he myght compare,
Surmountinge in honor all erls he did excede,
To all cuntreis aboute hym reporte me I dare.
Lyke to Eneas benygne in worde and dede,
Valiaunt as Hector in every marciall nede,
Provydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse,
Tyll the chaunce ran agyne him of fortunes duble dyse.

What nedethe me for to extoll his fame

With my rude pen enkankerd all with rust?
Whos noble actis shew worsheply his name,
Transcendyng far myne homely muse, that must
Yet sumwhat wright supprisid with hartly lust,
Truly reportinge his right noble astate,
Immortally whiche is immaculate.

His noble blode never disteynyd was,
Trew to his prince for to defende his right,
Doublenes hatinge, fals maters to compas,

Treytory and treson he bannesht out of syght,
With trowth to medle was all his hole delyght,
As all his kuntrey kan testefy the same:
To slo suche a lord, alas, it was grete shame.

If the hole quere of the musis nyne

In me all onely wer sett and comprisyde,
Enbrethed with the blast of influence dyvyne,
As perfightly as could be thought or devysyd:
To me also allthouche it were promysyde

Of laureat Phebus holy the eloquence,
All were to litill for his magnyficence.

O yonge lyon, bot tender yet of age,
Grow and encrese, remembre thyn astate,
God the assyst unto thyn herytage,

And geve the grace to be more fortunate,
Agayne rebellyouns arme to make debate.
And, as the lyoune, whiche is of bestis kinge,
Unto thy subjectis be kurteis and benyngne.

I pray God sende the prosperous lyf and long,
Stabille thy mynde constant to be and fast,
Right to mayntein, and to resist all wronge:
All flattringe faytors abhor and from the cast,
Of foule detraction God kepe the from the blast:
Let double delinge in the have no place,
And be not light of credence in no case.

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,
And all other gentilmen with hym enterteynd

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,
Thou bringe unto thy joye etermynable

The sowle of this lorde from all daunger of hell,
In endles blis with the to byde and dwell

In thy palace above the orient,

Where thou art lorde, and God omnipotent.

O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace,
Maiden moste pure, and goddis moder dere,
To sorowful harts chef comfort and solace,
Of all women O floure withouten pere,
Pray to thy son above the starris clere,
He to vouchesaf by thy mediatioun

To pardon thy servant, and bringe to salvacion.

In joy triumphaunt the hevenly yerarchy,
With all the hole sorte of that glorious place,
His soule mot receyve into ther company

Thorowe bounte of hym that formed all solace:
Well of pite, of mercy, and of grace,
The father, the son, and the holy goste
In Trinitate one God of myghts moste.

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."