This copious and versatile writer flourished in the reign of Henry VI. Warton affirms that he reached his highest point of eminence in 1430, although some of his poems had appeared before. He was a monk of the Benedictine Abbey at Bury, in Suffolk. He received his education at Oxford; and when it was finished, he travelled through France and Italy, mastering the languages and literature of both countries, and studying their poets, particularly Dante, Boccaccio, and Alain Chartier. When he returned, he opened a school in his monastery for teaching the sons of the nobility composition and the art of versification. His acquirements were, for the age, universal. He was a poet, a rhetorician, an astronomer, a mathematician, a public disputant, and a theologian. He was born in 1370, ordained sub-deacon in 1389, deacon in 1393, and priest in 1397. The time of his death is uncertain. His great patron was Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to whom he complains sometimes of necessitous circumstances, which were, perhaps, produced by indulgence, since he confesses himself to be 'a lover of wine.'

The great merit of Lydgate is his versatility. This Warton has happily expressed in a few sentences, which we shall quote:—

'He moves with equal ease in every form of composition. His hymns and his ballads have the same degree of merit; and whether his subject be the life of a hermit or a hero, of Saint Austin or Guy, Earl of Warwick, ludicrous or legendary, religious or romantic, a history or an allegory, he writes with facility. His transitions were rapid, from works of the most serious and laborious kind, to sallies of levity and pieces of popular entertainment. His muse was of universal access; and he was not only the poet of his monastery, but of the world in general. If a disguising was intended by the Company of Goldsmiths, a mask before His Majesty at Eltham, a May game for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming before the Lord Mayor, a procession of pageants, from the "Creation," for the Festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for the coronation, Lydgate was consulted, and gave the poetry.'

Lydgate is, so far as we know, the first British bard who wrote for hire. At the request of Whethamstede, the Abbot of St Alban's, he translated a 'Life of St Alban' from Latin into English rhymes, and received for the whole work one hundred shillings. His principal poems, all founded on the works of other authors, are the 'Fall of Princes,' the 'Siege of Thebes,' and the 'Destruction of Troy.' They are written in a diffuse and verbose style, but are generally clear in sense, and often very luxuriant in description. 'The London Lyckpenny' is a fugitive poem, in which the author describes himself coming up to town in search of legal redress for a wrong, and gives some curious particulars of the condition of that city in the early part of the fifteenth century.

CANACE, CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY HER FATHER AEOLUS, SENDS TO HER GUILTY BROTHER MACAREUS THE LAST TESTIMONY OF HER UNHAPPY PASSION.

Out of her swoonË when she did abraid,[1]
Knowing no mean but death in her distrÈss,
To her brothÈr full piteously she said,
'Cause of my sorrow, root of my heaviness,
That whilom were the source of my gladness,
When both our joys by will were so disposed,
Under one key our hearts to be enclosed.—

* * * * *

This is mine end, I may it not astart;[2]
O brother mine, there is no more to say;
Lowly beseeching with mine wholË heart
For to remember specially, I pray,
If it befall my little son to dey[3]
That thou mayst after some mind on us have,
Suffer us both be buried in one grave.
I hold him strictly 'tween my armËs twain,
Thou and NatÙrË laid on me this charge;
He, guiltless, mustË with me suffer pain,
And, since thou art at freedom and at large,
Let kindness ourË love not so discharge,
But have a mind, wherever that thou be,
Once on a day upon my child and me.
On thee and me dependeth the trespÀce
Touching our guilt and our great offence,
But, welaway! most Àngelic of face
Our childË, young in his pure innocence,
Shall against right suffer death's violence,
Tender of limbs, God wot, full guiltËless
The goodly fair, that lieth here speechlÈss.

A mouth he has, but wordËs hath he none;
Cannot complain, alas! for none outrÀge:
Nor grutcheth[4] not, but lies here all alone
Still as a lamb, most meek of his visÀge.
What heart of steel could do to him damÀge,
Or suffer him die, beholding the mannÈre
And look benign of his twain even clear.'—

* * * * *

Writing her letter, awhapped[5] all in drede,
In her right hand her pen began to quake,
And a sharp sword to make her heartË bleed,
In her left hand her father hath her take,
And most her sorrow was for her childË's sake,
Upon whose facË in her barme[6] sleepÍng
Full many a tear she wept in complainÍng.
After all this so as she stood and quoke,
Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart,
Without abode the sharpË sword she took,
And rove herselfË even to the heart;
Her child fell down, which mightË not astart,
Having no help to succour him nor save,
But in her blood theself began to bathe.

[1] 'Abraid:' awake. [2] 'Astart:' escape. [3] 'Dey:' die. [4] 'Grutcheth:' murmureth. [5] 'Awhapped:' confounded. [6] 'Barme:' lap.

THE LONDON LYCKPENNY.

Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor
Would do for me ought, although I should die:
Which seeing, I gat me out of the door,
Where Flemings began on me for to cry,
'Master, what will you copen[1] or buy?
Fine felt hats? or spectacles to read?
Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.

Then to Westminster gate I presently went,
When the sun was at high prime:
Cooks to me they took good intent,[2]
And proffered me bread, with ale and wine,
Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine;
A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread,
But, wanting money, I might not be sped.

Then unto London I did me hie,
Of all the land it beareth the price;
'Hot peascods!' one began to cry,
'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'[3]
One bade me come near and buy some spice;
Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;[4]
But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn,
Where much people I saw for to stand;
One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn,
Another he taketh me by the hand,
'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!'
I never was used to such things, indeed;
And, wanting money, I might not speed.

Then went I forth by London Stone,
Throughout all Canwick Street:
Drapers much cloth me offered anon;
Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;'
One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,[5]
One bade me buy a hood to cover my head;
But, for want of money, I might not be sped.

Then I hied me unto East-Cheap,
One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie;
Pewter pots they clattered on a heap;
There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy;
Yea by cock! nay by cock! some began cry;
Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed;
But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then into Cornhill anon I yode,[6]
Where was much stolen gear among;
I saw where hung mine ownË hood,
That I had lost among the throng;
To buy my own hood I thought it wrong:
I knew it well, as I did my creed;
But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

The taverner took me by the sleeve,
'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine assay?'
I answered, 'That can not much me grieve,
A penny can do no more than it may;'
I drank a pint, and for it did pay;
Yet, sore a-hungered from thence I yede,[7]
And, wanting money, I could not speed.

[1] 'Copen:' koopen(Flem.) to buy. [2] 'Took good intent:' took notice; paid attention. [3] 'In the rise:' on the branch. [4] 'Beed:' offer. [5] 'Greet:' cry. [6] 'Yode:' went. [7] 'Yede:' went.

HARDING, KAY, &c.

John Harding flourished about the year 1403. He fought at the battle of Shrewsbury on the Percy side. He is the author of a poem entitled 'The Chronicle of England unto the Reign of King Edward the Fourth, in Verse.' It has no poetic merit, and little interest, except to the antiquary. In the reign of the above king we find the first mention of a Poet Laureate. John Kay was appointed by Edward, when he returned from Italy, Poet Laureate to the king, but has, perhaps fortunately for the world, left behind him no poems. Would that the same had been the case with some of his successors in the office! There is reason to believe, that for nearly two centuries ere this date, there had existed in the court a personage, entitled the King's Versifier, (versificator,) to whom one hundred shillings a-year was the salary, and that the title was, by and by, changed to that of Poet Laureate, i.e., Laurelled Poet. It had long been customary in the universities to crown scholars when they graduated with laurel, and Warton thinks that from these the first poet laureates were selected, less for their general genius than for their skill in Latin verse. Certainly the earliest of the Laureate poems, such as those by Baston and Gulielmus, who acted as royal poets to Richard I. and Edward II., and wrote, the one on Richard's Crusade, and the other on Edward's Siege of Stirling Castle, are in Latin. So too are the productions of Andrew Bernard, who was the Poet Laureate successively to Henry VII. and Henry VIII. It was not till after the Reformation had lessened the superstitious veneration for the Latin tongue that the laureates began to write in English. It is almost a pity, we are sometimes disposed to think, that, in reference to such odes as those of Pye, Whitehead, Colley Cibber, and even some of Southey's, the old practice had not continued; since thus, in the first place, we might have had a chance of elegant Latinity, in the absence of poetry and sense; and since, secondly, the deficiencies of the laureate poems would have been disguised, from the general eye at least, under the veil of an unknown tongue. It is curious to notice about this period the uprise of two didactic poets, both writing on alchymy, the chemistry of that day, and neither displaying a spark of genius. These are John Norton and George Ripley, both renowned for learning and knowledge of their beloved occult sciences. Their poems, that by Norton, entitled 'The Ordinal,' and that by Ripley, entitled 'The Compound of Alchemie,' are dry and rugged treatises, done into indifferent verse. One rather fine fancy occurs in the first of these. It is that of an alchymist who projected a bridge of gold over the Thames, near London, crowned with pinnacles of gold, which, being studded with carbuncles, should diffuse a blaze of light in the dark! Alchymy has had other and nobler singers than Ripley and Norton. It has, as Warton remarks, 'enriched the store- house of Arabian romance with many magnificent imageries.' It is the inspiration of two of the noblest romances in this or any language —'St. Leon' and 'Zanoni.' And its idea, transfigured into a transcen- dental form, gave light and life and fire, and the loftiest poetry, to the eloquence of the lamented Samuel Brown, whose tongue, as he talked on his favourite theme, seemed transmuted into gold; nay, whose lips, like the touch of Midas, seemed to create the effects of alchymy upon every subject they approached, and upon every heart over which they wielded their sorcery.

We pass now from this comparatively barren age in the history of English poetry to a cluster of Scottish bards. The first of these is ROBERT HENRYSON. He was schoolmaster at Dunfermline, and died some time before 1508. He is supposed by Lord Hailes to have been preceptor of youth in the Benedictine convent in that place. He is the author of 'Robene and Makyne,' a pastoral ballad of very considerable merit, and of which Campbell says, somewhat too warmly, 'It is the first known pastoral,' (he means in the Scottish language of course,) 'and one of the best, in a dialect rich with the favours of the pastoral muse.' He wrote also a sequel to Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide' entitled 'The Testament of Cresseide,' and thirteen Fables, of which copies, in MS., are preserved in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. One of these, 'The Town and Country Mouse,' tells that old story with considerable spirit and humour. 'The Garment of Good Ladies' is an ingenious and beautiful strain, written in that quaint style of allegorising which continued popular as far down as the days of Cowley, and even later.

DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

* * * Their harboury was ta'en
Into a spence,[1] where victual was plenty,
Both cheese and butter on long shelves right high,
With fish and flesh enough, both fresh and salt,
And pockis full of groats, both meal and malt.

After, when they disposed were to dine,
Withouten grace they wuish[2] and went to meat,
On every dish that cookmen can divine,
Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit;[3]
A lordË's fare thus can they counterfeit,
Except one thing—they drank the water clear
Instead of wine, but yet they made good cheer.

With blithe upcast and merry countenance,
The elder sister then spier'd[4] at her guest,
If that she thought by reason difference
Betwixt that chamber and her sairy[5] nest.
'Yea, dame,' quoth she, 'but how long will this last?'
'For evermore, I wait,[6] and longer too;'
'If that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth she.

To eke the cheer, in plenty forth they brought
A plate of groatis and a dish of meal,
A threif[7] of cakes, I trow she spared them nought,
Abundantly about her for to deal.
Furmage full fine she brought instead of jeil,
A white candle out of a coffer staw,[8]
Instead of spice, to creish[9] their teeth witha'.

Thus made they merry, till they might nae mair,
And, 'Hail, Yule, hail!' they cryit up on high;
But after joy oftentimes comes care,
And trouble after great prosperity.
Thus as they sat in all their jollity,
The spencer came with keyis in his hand,
Open'd the door, and them at dinner fand.

They tarried not to wash, as I suppose,
But on to go, who might the foremost win:
The burgess had a hole, and in she goes,
Her sister had no place to hide her in;
To see that silly mouse it was great sin,
So desolate and wild of all good rede,[10]
For very fear she fell in swoon, near dead.

Then as God would it fell in happy case,
The spencer had no leisure for to bide,
Neither to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase,
But on he went and cast the door up-wide.
This burgess mouse his passage well has spied.
Out of her hole she came and cried on high,
'How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.'

The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground,
And for the death she was full dreadand,
For to her heart struck many woful stound,
As in a fever trembling foot and hand;
And when her sister in such plight her fand,
For very pity she began to greet,
Syne[11] comfort gave, with words as honey sweet.

'Why lie ye thus? Rise up, my sister dear,
Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.'
The other answer'd with a heavy cheer,
'I may nought eat, so sore I am aghast.
Lever[12] I had this forty dayis fast,
With water kail, and green beans and peas,
Than all your feast with this dread and disease.'

With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her arise;
To board they went, and on together sat,
But scantly had they drunken once or twice,
When in came Gib HuntÉr, our jolly cat,
And bade God speed. The burgess up then gat,
And to her hole she fled as fire of flint;
Bawdrons[13] the other by the back has hent.[14]

From foot to foot he cast her to and frae,
Whiles up, whiles down, as cant[15] as any kid;
Whiles would he let her run under the strae[16]
Whiles would he wink and play with her buik-hid;[17]
Thus to the silly mouse great harm he did;
Till at the last, through fair fortune and hap,
Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap.[18]

Syne up in haste behind the panelling,
So high she clamb, that Gilbert might not get her,
And by the cluiks[19] craftily can hing,
Till he was gone, her cheer was all the better:
Syne down she lap, when there was none to let her;
Then on the burgess mouse loud could she cry,
'Farewell, sister, here I thy feast defy.

Thy mangery is minget[20] all with care,
Thy guise is good, thy gane-full[21] sour as gall;
The fashion of thy feris is but fair,
So shall thou find hereafterward may fall.
I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane[22] wall,
Of my defence now from yon cruel beast;
Almighty God, keep me from such a feast!

Were I into the place that I came frae,
For weal nor woe I should ne'er come again.'
With that she took her leave, and forth can gae,
Till through the corn, till through the plain.
When she was forth and free she was right fain,
And merrily linkit unto the muir,
I cannot tell how afterward she fure.[23]

But I heard syne she passed to her den,
As warm as wool, suppose it was not grit,
Full beinly[24] stuffed was both butt and ben,
With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and wheat;
Whene'er she liked, she had enough of meat,
In quiet and ease, withouten [any] dread,
But to her sister's feast no more she gaed.

[FROM THE MORAL.]

Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid;
Blessed be sober feast in quietÉ;
Who has enough, of no more has he need,
Though it be little into quantity.
Great abundance, and blind prosperity,
OfttimËs make an evil conclusion;
The sweetest life, therefore, in this country,
Is of sickerness,[25] with small possession.

[1] 'Spence:' pantry. [2] 'Wuish:' washed. [3] 'Telyies grit:' great pieces. [4] 'Spier'd;' asked. [5] 'Sairy:' sorry. [6] 'Wait:' expect. [7] 'Threif:' a set of twenty-four. [8] 'Staw:' stole. [9] 'Creish:' grease. [10] 'rede:' counsel. [11] 'Syne:' then. [12] 'Lever:' rather. [13] 'Bawdrons:' the cat. [14] 'Hent:' seized. [15] 'Cant:' lively. [16] 'Strae:' straw. [17] 'Buik-hid:' body. [18] 'Crap:' crept. [19] 'Cluiks:' claws. [20] 'Minget:' mixed. [21] 'Gane-full:' mouthful. [22] 'Parpane:' partition. [23] 'Fure:' went. [24] 'Beinly:' snugly. [25] 'Sickerness:' security.

THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES.

Would my good lady love me best,
And work after my will,
I should a garment goodliest
Gar[1] make her body till.[2]

Of high honoÙr should be her hood,
Upon her head to wear,
Garnish'd with governance, so good
No deeming[3] should her deir,[4]

Her sark[5] should be her body next,
Of chastity so white:
With shame and dread together mixt,
The same should be perfite.[6]

Her kirtle should be of clean constance,
Laced with lesum[7] love;
The mailies[8] of continuance,
For never to remove.

Her gown should be of goodliness,
Well ribbon'd with renown;
Purfill'd[9] with pleasure in ilk[10] place,
Furred with fine fashioÙn.

Her belt should be of benignity,
About her middle meet;
Her mantle of humility,
To thole[11] both wind and weet.[12]

Her hat should be of fair havÌng,
And her tippet of truth;
Her patelet of good pansÌng,[13]
Her hals-ribbon of ruth.[14]

Her sleeves should be of esperance,
To keep her from despair;
Her glovËs of good governance,
To hide her fingers fair.

Her shoes should be of sickerness,[15]
In sign that she not slide;
Her hose of honesty, I guess,
I should for her provide.

Would she put on this garment gay,
I durst swear by my seill,[16]
That she wore never green nor gray
That set[17] her half so weel.

[1] 'Gar:' cause. [2] 'Till:' to. [3] 'Deeming:' opinion. [4] 'Deir:' injure. [5] 'Sark:' shift. [6] 'Perfite:' perfect. [7] 'Lesum:' lawful. [8] 'Mailies:' eyelet-holes. [9] 'Purfill'd:' fringed. [10] 'Ilk:' each. [11] 'Thole:' endure. [12] 'Weet:': wet. [13] 'Pansing:' thinking. [14] 'Her hals-ribbon of ruth:' her neck-ribbon of pity. [15] 'Sickerness:' firmness. [16] 'Seill:' salvation. [17] 'Set:' became.