Thomas Chatterton

(1752 - 1770 / Bristol / England)

Eclogue The Second - Poem by Thomas Chatterton

SPRYTES of the bleste, the pious Nygelle sed,
Poure owte yer pleasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
Rycharde of Lyons harte to fyghte is gon,
Uponne the brede sea doe the banners gleme ;
The amenused nationnes be aston ,
To ken syke large a flete, syke fyne, syke breme .
The barkis heafods coupe the lymed streme;
Oundes synkeynge oundes upon the hard ake riese;
The water slughornes wythe a swotye cleme
Conteke the dynnynge ayre, and reche the skies.
Sprytes of the bleste, on gouldyn trones astedde ,
Poure owte yer pleasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
The gule depeyncted oares from the black tyde,
Decorn wyth fonnes rare, doe shemrynge ryse;
Upswalynge doe heie shewe ynne drierie pryde,
Lyche gore-red estells in the eve -merk skyes;
The nome-depeyncted shields, the speres aryse,
Alyche talle roshes on the water syde;
Alenge from bark to bark the bryghte sheene flyes;
Sweft-kerv'd delyghtes doe on the water glyde.
Sprites of the bleste, and everich Seyncte ydedde,
Poure owte youre pleasaunce on mie fadres hedde.
The Sarasen lokes owte: he doethe feere,
That Englondes brondeous sonnes do cotte the waie.
Lyke honted bockes, theye reineth here and there,
Onknowlachynge inne whatte place to obaie
The banner glesters on the beme of daie;
The mittee crosse Jerusalim ys seene;
Dhereof the fyghte yer corrage doe affraie
In baleful dole their faces be ywreene.
Sprytes of the bleste, and everich Seyncte ydedde,
Poure owte your pleasaunce on mie fadres hedde.
The bollengers and cottes , soe swyfte yn fyghte,
Upon the sydes of everich bark appere;
Foorthe to his offyce lepethe everych knyghte,
Eftsoones hys squyer, with hys shielde and spere.
The jynynge shieldes doe shemre and moke glare
The dotheynge oare doe make gemoted dynne;
The reynyng foemen , thynekeynge gif to dare,
Boun the merk swerde, theie seche to fraie theie blyn .
Sprytes of the bleste, and everyche Seyncte ydedde,
Powre oute yer pleasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
Now comm the warrynge Sarasyns to fyghte;
Kynge Rycharde, lyche a lyoncel of warre,
Inne sheenynge goulde, lyke feerie gronfers dyghte
Shaketh alofe hys honde, and seene afarre.
Syke haveth I espyde a greter starre
Amenge the drybblett ons to sheene fulle bryghte;
Syke sunnys wayne wyth amayl'd beames doe barr
The blaunchie mone or estells to gev lyghte.
Sprytes of the bleste, and everich Seyncte ydedde,
Poure owte your pleasaunce on mie fadres hedde.
Distraughte affraie , wythe lockes of blodde-red die,
Terroure, emburled yn the thonders rage,
Death, lynked to dismaie, dothe ugsomme flie,
Enchasynge echone champyonne war to wage.
Speeres bevyle speres; swerdes upon swerdes engage;
Armoure on armoure dynn , shielde upon shielde;
Ne dethe of thosandes can the warre assuage,
Botte salleynge nombers sable all the feelde.
Sprytes of the bleste, and everych Seynte ydedde,
Poure owte youre pleasaunce on mie fadres hedde.
The foemen fal arounde; the cross reles hye;
Steyned ynne goere, the harte of warre ys seen;
Kyng Richarde, thorough everyche trope dothe flie,
And beereth meynte of Turkes onto the greene;
Bie hymm the floure of Asies menn ys sleene
The waylynge mone doth fade before hys sonne;
Bie hym hys knyghtes bee formed to actions deene
Doeynge syke marvels , strongers be aston .
Sprytes of the bleste, and everych Seyncte ydedde,
Poure owte your pieasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
The fyghte ys wonne; Kynge Rycharde master is;
The Englonde bannerr kisseth the hie ayre;
Full of pure joie the armie is iwys
And everych one haveth it onne his bayre ;
Agayne to Englonde comme, and worschepped there,
Twyghte into lovynge armes, and feasted eft ;
In everych eyne aredynge nete of wyere ,
Of all remembrance of past peyne berefte.
Sprites of the bleste, and everich Seyncte ydedde,
Syke pleasures powre upon mie fadres hedde.
Syke Nigel sed, whan from the bluie sea
The upswol sayle dyd daunce before his eyne;
Swefte as the withe, hee toe the beeche dyd flee,
And founde his fadre steppeynge from the bryne.
Lette thyssen menne, who haveth sprite of loove,
Bethyncke untoe hemselves how mote the meetynge proove.

Comments about Eclogue The Second by Thomas Chatterton

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 1, 2010

Famous Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  3. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  4. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. Caged Bird
    Maya Angelou
  8. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  9. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
    Mary Elizabeth Frye
[Report Error]