XXXVIII.

I do not rhyme to that dull elf, Who cannot image to himself, That, all through Flodden’s dismal night, Wilton was foremost in the fight; That when brave Surrey’s steed was slain, ’Twas Wilton mounted him again; ’Twas Wilton’s brand that deepest hewed, Amid the spearmen’s stubborn wood: Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall, He was the living soul of all; That, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again; And charged his old paternal shield With bearings won on Flodden Field. Nor sing I to that simple maid, To whom it must in terms be said, That king and kinsmen did agree, To bless fair Clara’s constancy; Who cannot, unless I relate, Paint to her mind the bridal’s state; That Wolsey’s voice the blessing spoke, More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke: That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, And Katherine’s hand the stocking threw; And afterwards, for many a day, That it was held enough to say, In blessing to a wedded pair, “Love they like Wilton and like Clare!”

L’Envoy. TO THE READER.

WHY then a final note prolong, Or lengthen out a closing song, Unless to bid the gentles speed, Who long have listed to my rede? To statesmen grave, if such may deign To read the minstrel’s idle strain, Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, And patriotic heart—as Pitt! A garland for the hero’s crest, And twined by her he loves the best. To every lovely lady bright, What can I wish but faithful knight? To every faithful lover too, What can I wish but lady true? And knowledge to the studious sage;— And pillow to the head of age. To thee, dear schoolboy, whom my lay Has cheated of thy hour of play, Light task, and merry holiday! To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!

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