Chapter VI (2)

Kerlie beheld unto the bold Heroun, Upon Fawdoun as he was looking down, A subtil stroke upward him took that tide, Under the cheeks the grounden sword gart[1] glide, By the mail good, both halse[2] and his craig-bane[3] In sunder strake; thus ended that chieftain, To ground he fell, feil[4] folk about him throng, 'Treason,' they cried, 'traitors are us among.' Kerlie, with that, fled out soon at a side, His fellow Steven then thought no time to bide. The fray was great, and fast away they yeed,[5] Both toward Earn; thus 'scaped they that dread. Butler for woe of weeping might not stint. Thus recklessly this good knight have they tint.[6] They deemed all that it was Wallace' men, Or else himself, though they could not him ken; 'He is right near, we shall him have but[7] fail, This feeble wood may little him avail.' Forty there pass'd again to Saint Johnstoun, With this dead corpse, to burying made it boune.[8] Parted their men, syne[9] divers ways they rode, A great power at Dupplin still there 'bode. To Dalwryeth the Butler pass'd but let,[10] At sundry fords the gate[11] they unbeset,[12] To keep the wood while it was day they thought. As Wallace thus in the thick forest sought, For his two men in mind he had great pain, He wist not well if they were ta'en or slain, Or 'scaped haill[13] by any jeopardy. Thirteen were left with him, no more had he; In the Gaskhall their lodging have they ta'en. Fire got they soon, but meat then had they nane; Two sheep they took beside them of a fold, Ordain'd to sup into that seemly hold: Graithed[14] in haste some food for them to dight:[15] So heard they blow rude horns upon height. Two sent he forth to look what it might be; They 'bode right long, and no tidings heard he, But bousteous[16] noise so bryvely blowing fast; So other two into the wood forth pass'd. None came again, but bousteously can blaw, Into great ire he sent them forth on raw.[17] When that alone Wallace was leaved there, The awful blast abounded meikle mare;[18] Then trow'd he well they had his lodging seen; His sword he drew of noble metal keen, Syne forth he went whereat he heard the horn. Without the door Fawdoun was him beforn, As to his sight, his own head in his hand; A cross he made when he saw him so stand. At Wallace in the head he swakked[19] there, And he in haste soon hint[20] it by the hair, Syne out again at him he could it cast, Into his heart he greatly was aghast. Right well he trow'd that was no sprite of man, It was some devil, that sic[21] malice began. He wist no wale[22] there longer for to bide. Up through the hall thus wight Wallace can glide, To a close stair, the boards they rave[23] in twin,[24] Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn. Up the water he suddenly could fare, Again he blink'd what 'pearance he saw there, He thought he saw Fawdoun, that ugly sire, That haill[25] hall he had set into a fire; A great rafter he had into his hand. Wallace as then no longer would he stand. Of his good men full great marvel had he, How they were tint through his feil[26] fantasy. Trust right well that all this was sooth indeed, Suppose that it no point be of the creed. Power they had with Lucifer that fell, The time when he parted from heaven to hell. By sic mischief if his men might be lost, Drowned or slain among the English host; Or what it was in likeness of Fawdoun, Which brought his men to sudden confusion; Or if the man ended in ill intent, Some wicked sprite again for him present. I cannot speak of sic divinity, To clerks I will let all sic matters be: But of Wallace, now forth I will you tell. When he was won out of that peril fell, Right glad was he that he had 'scaped sa,[27] But for his men great mourning can he ma.[28] Flait[29] by himself to the Maker above Why he suffer'd he should sic paining prove. He wist not well if that it was God's will; Right or wrong his fortune to fulfil, Had he pleas'd God, he trow'd it might not bo He should him thole[30] in sic perplexity. But great courage in his mind ever drave, Of Englishmen thinking amends to have. As he was thus walking by him alone Upon Earnside, making a piteous moan, Sir John Butler, to watch the fords right, Out from his men of Wallace had a sight; The mist again to the mountains was gone, To him he rode, where that he made his moan. On loud he speir'd,[31] 'What art thou walks that gate?' 'A true man, Sir, though my voyage be late; Errands I pass from Down unto my lord, Sir John Stewart, the right for to record, In Down is now, newly come from the King.' Then Butler said, 'This is a selcouth[32] thing, You lied all out, you have been with Wallace, I shall thee know, ere you come off this place;' To him he start the courser wonder wight, Drew out a sword, so made him for to light. Above the knee good Wallace has him ta'en, Through thigh and brawn in sunder strake the bane.[33] Derfly[34] to dead the knight fell on the land. Wallace the horse soon seized in his hand, An ackward stroke syne took him in that stead, His craig in two; thus was the Butler dead. An Englishman saw their chieftain was slain, A spear in rest he cast with all his main, On Wallace drave, from the horse him to bear; Warily he wrought, as worthy man in weir.[35] The spear ho wan withouten more abode, On horse he lap,[36] and through a great rout rode; To Dalwryeth he knew the ford full well: Before him came feil[37] stuffed[38] in fine steel. He strake the first, but bade,[39] on the blasoun,[40] Till horse and man both fleet[41] the water down. Another soon down from his horse he bare, Stamped to ground, and drown'd withouten mair.[42] The third he hit in his harness of steel, Throughout the cost,[43] the spear it brake some deal. The great power then after him can ride. He saw no waill[44] there longer for to bide. His burnish'd brand braithly[45] in hand he bare, Whom he hit right they follow'd him na mair.[46] To stuff the chase feil freiks[47] follow'd fast, But Wallace made the gayest aye aghast. The muir he took, and through their power yede, The horse was good, but yet he had great dread For failing ere he wan unto a strength, The chase was great, skail'd[48] over breadth and length, Through strong danger they had him aye in sight. At the Blackford there Wallace down can light, His horse stuffed,[49] for way was deep and lang, A large great mile wightly on foot could gang.[50] Ere he was hors'd riders about him cast, He saw full well long so he might not last. Sad[51] men indeed upon him can renew, With returning that night twenty he slew, The fiercest aye rudely rebutted he, Keeped his horse, and right wisely can flee, Till that he came the mirkest[52] muir amang. His horse gave over, and would no further gang.

[1] 'Gart:' caused. [2] 'Halse:' throat. [3] 'Craig-bane:' neck-lone. [4] 'Feil:' many. [5] 'Yeed:' went. [6] 'Tint:' lost. [7] 'But:' without. [8] 'Boune:' ready. [9] 'Sync:' then. [10] 'But let:' without impediment. [11] 'Gate:' way. [12] 'Unbeset:' surround. [13] 'Haill:' wholly. [14] 'Graithed:' prepared. [15] 'Dight:' Make ready. [16] 'Bousteous:' boisterous. [17] 'On raw:' one after another. [18] 'Meikle mare:' much more. [19] 'Swakked:' pitched. [20] 'Hint:' took. [21] 'Sic:' such. [22] 'Wale:' advantage. [23] 'Rave:' split. [24] 'Twin:' twain. [25] 'Haill:'whole. [26] 'Feil:' great. [27] 'Sa:' so. [28] 'Ma:' make. [29] 'Flait:' chided. [30] 'Thole:' suffer. [31] 'Speir'd:' asked. [32] 'Selcouth:' strange. [33] 'Bane:' bone. [34] 'Derfly:' Quickly. [35] 'Weir:' war. [36] 'Lap:' leaped. [37] 'Feil:' many. [38] 'Stuffed:' armed. [39] 'But bade:' without delay. [40] 'Blasoun:' dress over armour. [41] 'Fleet:' float. [42] 'Mair:' more. [43] 'Cost:' side. [44] 'Waill:' advantage. [45] 'Braithly:' violently. [46] 'Na mair:' no more. [47] 'Feil freiks:' many fierce fellows. [48] 'Skail'd:' spread. [49] 'Stuffed:' blown. [50] 'Gang:' go. [51] 'Sad:' steady. [52] 'Mirkest:' darkest.

THE DEATH OF WALLACE.

On Wednesday the false Southron forth him brought To martyr him, as they before had wrought.[1] Of men in arms led him a full great rout. With a bold sprite good Wallace blink'd about: A priest he ask'd, for God that died on tree. King Edward then commanded his clergy, And said, 'I charge you, upon loss of life, None be so bold yon tyrant for to shrive. He has reign'd long in contrare my highness.' A blithe bishop soon, present in that place; Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord; Against the king he made this right record, And said, 'Myself shall hear his confessioun, If I have might, in contrare of thy crown. An[2] thou through force will stop me of this thing, I vow to God, who is my righteous king, That all England I shall her interdict, And make it known thou art a heretic. The sacrament of kirk I shall him give: Syne[3] take thy choice, to starve[4] or let him live. It were more 'vail, in worship of thy crown, To keep such one in life in thy bandoun,[5] Than all the land and good that thou hast reft, But cowardice thee aye from honour dreft.[6] Thou hast thy life rougin[7] in wrongous deed; That shall be seen on thee, or on thy seed.' The king gart[8] charge they should the bishop tae,[9] But sad[10] lords counselled to let him gae. All Englishmen said that his desire was right. To Wallace then he raiked[11] in their sight, And sadly heard his confession till an end: Humbly to God his sprite he there commend, Lowly him served with hearty devotion Upon his knees, and said an orison. A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever, From his childhood from it would not dissever; Better he trow'd in voyage[12] for to speed. But then he was despoiled of his weed.[13] This grace he ask'd at Lord Clifford, that knight, To let him have his psalter-book in sight. He gart a priest it open before him hold, While they till him had done all that they would. Steadfast he read for ought they did him there; Foil[14] Southrons said that Wallace felt no sair.[15] Good devotion so was his beginning, Continued therewith, and fair was his ending; Till speech and spirit at once all can fare To lasting bliss, we trow, for eveermair.

[1] 'Wrought:' contrived. [2] 'An:' if. [3] 'Syne:' then. [4] 'Starve:' perish. [5] 'Bandoun:' disposal. [6] 'Dreft:' drove. [7] 'Rougin:' spent. [8] 'Gart:' caused. [9] 'Tae:' take. [10] 'Sad:' grave. [11] 'Raiked:' walked. [12] 'Voyage:' journey to heaven. [13] 'Weed:' clothes. [14] 'Feil:' many. [15] 'Sair:' sore.

JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.

Here we have a great ascent from our former subject of biography--from Blind Harry to James I.--from a beggar to a king. But in the Palace of Poetry there are 'many mansions,' and men of all ranks, climes, characters, professions, and we had almost added _talents_, have been welcome to inhabit there. For, even as in the House Beautiful, the weak Ready-to-halt and the timid Much-afraid were as cheerfully received as the strong Honest and the bold Valiant-for-truth; so Poetry has inspired children, and seeming fools, and maniacs, and mendicants with the finest breath of her spirit. The 'Fable-tree' Fontaine is as immortal as Corneille; Christopher Smart's 'David' shall live as long as Milton's 'Paradise Lost;' and the rude epic of a blind wanderer, whose birth, parentage, and period of death are all alike unknown, shall continue to rank in interest with the productions of one who inherited that kingdom of Scotland, the independence of which was bought by the successive efforts and the blended blood of Wallace and Bruce.

Let us now look for a moment at the history and the writings of this 'Royal Poet.' The name will suggest to all intelligent readers the title of one of the most pleasing papers in Washington Irving's 'Sketch-book.' James I. was the son of Robert III. of Scotland,--a character familiar to all from the admirable 'Fair Maid of Perth,'--and of Annabella Stewart. He was created Earl of Carrick; and after the miserable death of the Duke of Rothesay, his elder brother, his father, apprehensive of the further designs of Albany, determined to send James to France, to find an asylum and receive his education in that friendly Court. On his way, the vessel was captured off Flamborough Head by an English cruiser, (the 13th of March 1405,) and the young prince, with his attendants, was conveyed to London, and committed to the Tower. As there was a truce between the two nations at the time, this was a flagrant outrage on the law of nations, and has indelibly disgraced the memory of Henry IV., who, when some one remonstrated with him on the injustice of the detention, replied, with cool brutality, 'Had the Scots been grateful, they ought to have sent the youth to me, for I understand French well.' Here for nineteen years,--during the remainder of the life of Henry IV., and the whole of the reign of Henry V.,--James continued. He was educated, however, highly, according to the fashion of these times, --instructed in the languages, as well as in music, painting, architecture, horticulture, dancing, fencing, poetry, and other accomplishments. Still it must have fretted his high spirit to be passing his young life in prison, while without horses were stamping, plumes glistening, trumpets sounding, tournaments waging, and echoes from the great victories of Henry V. in France ringing around. One sweetener of his solitude, however, he at length enjoyed. Having been transferred from the Tower to Windsor Castle, he beheld one day from its windows that beautiful vision he has described in 'The King's Quhair,' (see 'Specimens.') This was Lady Jane or Joanna Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, niece of Richard II., and grand-daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. She was a lady of great beauty and accomplishments as well as of high rank, and James, even before he knew her name, became deeply enamoured. The passion was returned, and their mutual attachment had by and by an important bearing upon his prospects.

In 1423, the Duke of Bedford being now the English Regent, the friends of James renewed negotiations--often attempted before in vain--for his return to his native land, where his father had been long dead, and which, torn by factions and steeped in blood, was sorely needing his presence. Commissioners from the two kingdoms met at Pontefract on the 12th of May 1423, when, in presence of the young King, and with his consent, matters were arranged. The English coolly demanded L40,000 to defray the expense of James's nurture and education, (as though a _bill_ were handed in to a man who had been unjustly detained in prison on a false charge, ere he left its walls,) insisted on the immediate departure of the Scots from France, where a portion of them were fighting in the French army, and procured the assent of the Scottish Privy Council to the marriage of James with his beloved Jane Beaufort. A truce, too, with Scotland was concluded for seven years. All this was settled; and soon after, in the Church of St Mary Overies, Southwark, so often alluded to in the 'Life of Gower,' the happy pair were wed. It seemed a most auspicious event for both countries, and to augur the substitution of permanent peace for casual and temporary truces. To Lady Jane Beaufort it gave a crown, and a noble, gallant, and gifted prince to share it withal. On James it bestowed a lady of great beauty, who was regarded, too, with gratitude as having lightened the load of his captivity, and been a sunshine in his shady place, and--least consideration--who brought him a dowry of L10,000, which was, in fact, a remission of the fourth part of his ransom.

Attended by a magnificent retinue, the royal pair set out for Scotland. They were met at Durham by three hundred of the principal nobility and gentry, twenty-eight of whom were retained by the English as hostages for the national faith. Arrived on his native soil, James, at Melrose Abbey, gave his solemn assent on the Holy Gospels to the treaty; and seldom have the Eildon Hills returned a louder and more joyous shout of acclamation than now welcomed back to the kingdom of his fathers the 'Royal Poet.' He proceeded to Edinburgh, where he celebrated Easter with great pomp, and a month later, he and his queen were solemnly crowned inthe Abbey Church at Scone. This was in 1424. He lived after this only thirteen years; but the period of his reign has always been thought a glorious interlude in the dark early history of Scotland. He set himself, with considerable success, to curb the exorbitant power of the nobles, sacrificing some of them, such as Albany, to his just indignation. He passed many useful regulations in reference to the coinage, the constitution, and the commerce of the country. He suppressed with a strong hand some of the gangs of robbers and 'sorners' which abounded, founding instead the order of Bedesmen or King's Beggars, immortalised since in the character of Edie Ochiltree. He stretched a strong hand over the refractory Highland chieftains. While keeping at first on good terms with the English Court, he turned with a fonder eye to the French as the ancient allies of Scotland, and in 1436 gave his daughter Margaret in marriage to the Dauphin. This step roused the jealousy of his southern neighbours, who tried even to intercept the fleet that was conveying the bride across the Channel, whereupon James, stung to fury, proclaimed war against England, and in August commenced the siege of Roxburgh Castle. The castle, after being environed for fifteen days, was about to fall into his hands, when the Queen suddenly arrived in the camp, and communicated some information, probably referring to a threatened conspiracy of the nobles, which induced him to throw up the siege, disband his army, and return northward in haste. This unexpected step probably retarded, but could not prevent the dreadful purpose of death which had already been formed against the King.

In October 1436, he held his last Parliament in Edinburgh, in which, amidst many other enactments, we find, curiously enough, a prefiguration of the Forbes Mackenzie Act, in a decree that all taverns should be shut at nine o'clock. In the end of the year he determined on retiring to Perth, where (in the language of Gibbon, applied to Timour) 'he was expected by the Angel of Death.' It is said that, when about to cross the Frith of Forth, then called the Scottish Sea, a Highland woman, who claimed the character of a prophetess, like Meg Merrilees in fiction, met the cavalcade, and cried out, with a loud voice, 'My Lord the King, if you pass this water you shall never return again alive;' but as she was concluded to be mad or drunk, her warning was scorned. He betook himself to the convent of the Black Friars, where Christmas was being celebrated with great pomp and splendour. Meanwhile Robert Grahame, and Walter, Earl of Athole, the King's own uncle, actuated, the former by revenge on account of the resumption of some lands improperly granted to his family, and the latter by a desire to succeed to the Crown, had formed a plot against James's life. Several warnings, besides that of the Highland seeress, the King received, but he heeded them not, and, like most of the doomed, was in unnaturally high spirits, as if the winding-sheet far up his breast had been a wedding-robe.

It is the evening of the 20th of February 1437. James and his nobles and ladies are seated at table till deep into the night, engaged in chess, music, and song. Athole, like another Judas, has supped with them, and gone out at a late hour. A tremendous knocking is heard at the gate. It is the Highland prophetess, who, having followed the monarch to Perth, is seeking to force her way into the room. The King tells her, through his usher, that he cannot receive her to-night, but will hear her tidings to-morrow. She retires reluctantly, murmuring that they will for ever rue their refusal to admit her into the royal presence. About an hour after this, James calls for the _Voidee_, or parting-cup, and the company disperse. Sir Robert Stewart, the chamberlain, who is in the confidence of the conspirators, is the last to retire, having previously destroyed the locks and removed the bars of the doors of the royal bed- chamber and the outer room adjoining. The King is standing before the fire, in his night-gown and slippers, and talking gaily with the Queen and her ladies, when torches are seen flashing up from the garden, and the clash of arms and the sound of angry voices is heard from below. A sense of the dread reality bursts on them in an instant. The Queen and the ladies run to secure the door of the chamber, while James, seizing the tongs, wrenches up one of the boards of the floor and takes refuge in a vault beneath. This was wont to have an opening to the outer court, but it had unfortunately been built up of late by his own orders. There, under the replaced boards, cowers the King, while the Queen and her women seek to barricade the door. One brave young lady, Catherine Douglas, thrusts her beautiful arm into the staple from which the bolt had been removed. It is broken in a moment, and she sinks back, to bear, with her descendants--a family well known in Scotland--the name of _Barlass_ ever since. The murderers, who had previously killed in the passage one Walter Straiton, a page, rush in, with naked swords, wounding the ladies, striking, and well-nigh killing the Queen, and crying, with frantic imprecations, 'This is but a woman! Where is James?' Finding him not in the chamber, they leave it, and disperse through the neighbouring apartments in search.

James, who had become wearied of his immurement, and thought the assassins were gone, calls now on one of the ladies to aid him in coming out of his place of concealment. But while this is being effected, one of the murderers returns. The cry, 'Found, found,' rings through the halls; and after a violent but unarmed resistance, the King is, with circumstances of horrible barbarity, first mangled, then run through the body, and then despatched with daggers. In vain he offers half his kingdom for his life; and when he seeks a confessor from Grahame, the ruffian replies, 'Thou shalt have no confessor but this sword.' It is satisfactory to know that the Queen made her escape, and that the criminals were punished, although the tortures they endured are such as human nature shrinks from conceiving, and history with a shudder records.

* * * * *

We turn with pleasure from King James's life and death to his poetry, although there is so little of it that a sentence or two will suffice. 'The King's Quhair' is a poem conceived very much in the spirit, and written in the style of Chaucer, whose works were favourites with James. There is the same sympathy with nature, and the same perception of _its_ relation to and unconscious sympathy with human feelings, and the same luscious richness in the description, alike of the early beauties of spring and of youthful feminine loveliness, although this seems more natural in the young poet James than in the sexagenarian author of 'The Canterbury Tales.' There is nothing even in Chaucer we think finer than the picture of Lady Jane Beaufort in the garden, particularly in the lines--

'Or are ye god Cupidis own princess,
And comen are ye to loose me out of band?
Or are ye very Nature the goddess,
That have depainted with your heavenly hand
This garden full of flowers as they stand?'

Or where, picturing his mistress, he cries--

'And above all this there was, well I wot,
Beauty enough to make a world to dote.'

Or where, describing a ruby on her bosom, he says--

'That as a spark of low[1] so wantonly
Seemed burning upon her white throat.'

[1] 'Low:' fire.

Besides this precious little poem, King James is believed by some to have written several poems on Scottish subjects, such as 'Christis Kirk on the Green,' 'Peblis to the Play,' &c., but his claim to these is uncertain. The first describes the mingled merrymaking and contest common in the old rude marriages of Scotland, and, whether by James or not, is full of burly, picturesque force.

Take the Miller--

'The Miller was of manly make,
To meet him was no mowes.[1]
There durst not tensome there him take,
So cowed he their powes.[2]
The bushment whole about him brake,
And bicker'd him with bows.
Then traitorously behind his back
They hack'd him on the boughs
Behind that day.'

Or look at the following ill-paired pair--

'Of all these maidens mild as mead,
Was none so jimp as Gillie.
As any rose her rude[3] was red--
Her lire[4] like any lillie.
But yellow, yellow was her head,
And she of love so silly;
Though all her kin had sworn her dead,
She would have none but Willie,
Alone that day.

'She scorn'd Jock, and scripped at him,
And murgeon'd him with mocks--
He would have loved her--she would not let him,
For all his yellow locks.
He cherisht her--she bade go chat him--
She counted him not two clocks.
So shamefully his short jack[5] set him,
His legs were like two rocks,
Or rungs that day.'

[1] 'Mowes:' joke. [2] 'Powes:' heads. [3] 'Rude:' complexion. [4] 'Lire:' flesh, skill. [5] 'Jack:' jacket.

Our readers will perceive the resemblance, both in spirit and in form of verse, between this old poem and the 'Holy Fair,' and other productions of Burns.

James, cut off in the prime of life, may almost be called the abortive Alfred of Scotland. Had he lived, he might have made important contributions to her literature as well as laws, and given her a standing among the nations of Europe, which it took long ages, and even an incorporation with England, to secure. As it is, he stands high on the list of royal authors, and of those kings who, whether authors or not, have felt that nations cannot live on bread alone, and who have sought their intellectual culture as an object not inferior to their physical comfort. It is not, perhaps, too much to say, that no man or woman of genius has sate either on the Scotch or English throne since, except Cromwell, to whom, however, the term 'genius,' in its common sense, seems ludicrously inadequate. James V. had some of the erratic qualities of the poetic tribe, but his claim to the songs--such as the 'Gaberlunzie Man'--which go under his name, is exceedingly doubtful. James VI. was a pedant, without being a scholar--a rhymester, not a poet. Of the rest we need not speak. Seldom has the sceptre become an Aaron's rod, and flourished with the buds and blossoms of song. In our annals there has been one, and but one 'Royal Poet.'

THE KING THUS DESCRIBES THE APPEARANCE OF HIS MISTRESS, WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER FROM A WINDOW OF HIS PRISON AT WINDSOR.

X.

The longe dayes and the nightes eke, I would bewail my fortune in this wise, For which, against distress comfort to seek, My custom was, on mornes, for to rise Early as day: O happy exercise! By thee came I to joy out of torment; But now to purpose of my first intent.

XI.

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, Despaired of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and woe begone; And to the window 'gan I walk in hye,[1] To see the world and folk that went forby; As for the time (though I of mirthis food Might have no more) to look it did me good.

XII.

Now was there made fast by the toweris wall A garden fair; and in the corners set An herbere[2] green; with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with trees set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, That life was none [a] walking there forby That might within scarce any wight espy.

* * * * *

XIV.

And on the smalle greene twistis [3] sat The little sweete nightingale, and sung, So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate Of love's use, now soft, now loud among,[4] That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song; and on the couple next Of their sweet harmony, and lo the text.

XV.

Worship, O ye that lovers be, this May! For of your bliss the calends are begun; And sing with us, 'Away! winter, away! Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun; Awake for shame that have your heavens won; And amorously lift up your heades all, Thank love that list you to his mercy call.

* * * * *

XXI.

And therewith cast I down mine eye again, Where as I saw walking under the tower, Full secretly new comen to her pleyne,[5] The fairest and the freshest younge flower That e'er I saw (methought) before that hour For which sudden abate [6] anon astert [7] The blood of all my body to my heart.

* * * * *

XXVII.

Of her array the form if I shall write, Toward her golden hair, and rich attire, In fret-wise couched with pearlis white, And greate balas[8] lemyng[9] as the fire; With many an emerald and fair sapphire, And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, Of plumes parted red, and white, and blue.

* * * * *

XXIX.

About her neck, white as the fair amaille,[10] A goodly chain of small orfeverie,[11] Whereby there hang a ruby without fail Like to a heart yshapen verily, That as a spark of lowe[12] so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat; Now if there was good, perdie God it wrote.

XXX.

And for to walk that freshe Maye's morrow, A hook she had upon her tissue white, That goodlier had not been seen toforrow,[13] As I suppose, and girt she, was a lite[14] Thus halfling[15] loose for haste; to such delight It was to see her youth in goodlihead, That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread.