The subject of this poem which was written by Skelton, is the death of Henry Percy, fourth Earl of Northumberland, who fell a victim to the avarice of Henry VII. In 1489 the parliament had granted the king a subsidy for carrying on the war in Bretagne. This tax was found so heavy in the North that the whole country was in a flame. The E. of Northumberland, then lord lieutenant for Yorkshire, wrote to inform the king of the discontent, and praying an abatement. But nothing is so unrelenting as avarice the king wrote back that not a penny should be abated. This message being delivered by the earl with too little caution, the populace rose, and, supposing him to be the promoter of their calamity, broke into his house, and murdered him, with several of his attendants, who yet are charged by Skelton with being backward in their duty on this occasion. This melancholy event happened at the earl's seat at Cocklodge, near Thirske, in Yorkshire, April 28, 1489. See Lord Bacon, &c.

If the reader does not find much poetical merit in this old poem, (which yet is one of Skelton's best,) he will see a striking picture of the state and magnificence kept up by our ancient nobility during the feudal times. This great earl is described here as having, among his menial servants, knights, squires, and even barons: see ver 32, 183, &c. which, however different from modern manners, formerly not unusual with our greater Barons, whose castles had all the splendour and offices of a royal court, before the laws against retainers abridged and limited the number of their attendants.

was

John Skelton, who commonly styled himself Poet Laureat, died June 21, 1529. The following poem, which appears to have been written soon after the event, is printed from an ancient MS. copy preserved in the British Museum, being much more correct than that printed among Skelton's Poems, in bl. let. 12mo, 1568. It is addressed to Henry Percy fifth Earl of Northumberland, and is prefaced &c. in the following manner :

The mother of Henry, first Earl of Northumberland, was Mary daughter to Henry Eart of Lancaster, whose father Edmond was second son of King Henry III.--The mother and wife of the second Earl of Northumberland were both lineal descendants of King Edward III-The Percys also were lineally descended from the Emperor Charlemagne and the ancient Kings of France, by his ancestor Josceline du Lovain (son of Godfrey Duke of Brabant), who took the name of Percy on marrying the heiress of that house in the reign of Hen. II., Vid. Camden Britan. Edmondson, &c.

Fulfilled with honor, as all the worlde dothe ken; 30 At his commaundement, whiche had both day and Knyghtis and squyers, at every season when [night He calde upon them, as menyall houshold men Were no thes commones uncurteis karlis of kynde To slo their owne lorde? God was not in their [minde. 35

And were not they to blame, I say also,
That were aboute hym, his owne servants of trust,
To suffre hym slayn of his mortall fo?

Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust: They bode not till the rekening were discust. 40 What shuld I flatter? what shulde I glose or paynt? Fy, fy for shame, their harts wer to faint.

In Englande and Fraunce, which gretly was redouted; Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede;

To whome grete astates obeyde and lowttede :

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A mayny of rude villayns made him for to blede : Unkindly they slew him, that holp them oft at nede 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? 50
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.

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Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt, The famous erle of Northumberlande :

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That with thy sworde enharpid of mortall drede, 125
Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

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

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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, 135 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 fortune's 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,

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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 such a lord, alas, was grete shame.

If the hole quere of the musis nyne

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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,

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All were too litill for his magny ficence.

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.

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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 180
Bothe temporall and spirituall for to complayne
This noble man, that crewelly was slayne.

To the pray we, as prince incomperable,
As thou art of mercy and pite the well,
Thou bringe unto thy joy etermynable

The sowle of this lorde from all daunger of hell, 200
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, 205
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. 210

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

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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.

+++ I have placed the foregoing poem of Skelton's before the following extract from Hawes, not only because it was written first, but because I think Skelton is in general to be considered as the earlier poet; many of his poems being written long before Hawes's Graunde Amour.

THE reader has here a specimen of the descriptive powers of Stephen Hawes, a celebrated poet in the reign of Hen. VII., though now little known. It is extracted from an allegorical poem of his (written in 1505,) intitled, "The Hist. of Graunde Amoure & La Belle Pucel, called the Palace of Pleasure, &c." 4to. 1555. See more of Hawes in Ath. Ox. v. 1, p. 6, and Warton's Observ. v. 2, p. 105. He was also author of a book, intitled, "The Temple of Glass. Wrote by Stephen Hawes, gentleman of the bedchamber to K. Henry VII." Pr. for Caxton, 4to. no date.

And after thys further forth me brought
Dame Countenaunce into a goodly Hall,
Of jasper stones it was wonderly wrought:
Thy wyndowes cleare depured all of crystall, 60
And in the roufe on bye over all

Of golde was made a ryght crafty vyne;
Instede of grapes the rubies there did shyne.

The flore was paved with berall clarified,
With pillers made of stones precious,
Like a place of pleasure so gayely glorified,
It myght be called a palaice glorious,
So muche delectable and solacious;
The ball was hanged hye and circuler
With cloth of arras in the rychest maner,

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