An archaeological epistle to the Reverend and Worshipful Jeremiah Milles D. D. Dean of Exeter, President of the Society of Antiquaries, and Editor of a superb edition of the poems of Thomas Rowley, priest. To which is annexed a glossary, extracted from that of the learned Dean [by William Mason] |
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 | An archaeological epistle to the Reverend and Worshipful Jeremiah Milles |  |
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EPISTELLE TO DOCTOURE MYLLES.
I
As whanne a gronfer with ardurous glowe,Han from the mees liche sweltrie sun arist,
The lordynge toade awhaped creepethe slowe,
To hilte his groted weam in mokie kiste;
Owlettes yblente alyche dooe flizze awaie,
In ivye-wympled shade to glomb in depe dismaie.
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II
So dygne Deane Mylles, whanne as thie wytte so rareHan Rowley's amenused fame chevysed,
His foemenne alle forlette theyre groffish gare,
Whyche in theyre houton sprytes theie han devysed,
Whanne thee theie ken wythe poyntel in thie honde,
Enroned lyche anlace fell, or lyche a burly-bronde.
III
Thomas of Oxenford, whose teeming brayneThree bawsin rolles of olde rhyms historie
Ymaken hanne wythe mickle tene and payne,
Nete kennethe he of Archaeologie,
Whoe pyghtes hys knowlachynge to preve echeone
Of Rowley's fetive lynes were pennde bie Chattertone.
IV
Hie thee, poore Thomas, hie thee to thie celle,Ne mo wythe auntyante vearse astounde thy wytte;
Of seemlikeenly rhym thou nete maie spelle,
For herehaughtree, or prose thou botte arte fytte:
Vearse for thie rede is too grete mysterie;
Ne e'er shalle Loverde North a Canynge proove to thee.
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V
Deane Percy, albeytte thou bee a Deane,O whatte arte thou whanne pheered with dygne Deane Mylle?
Nete botte a groffyle Acolythe I weene;
Inne auntyante barganette lyes alle thie skylle.
Deane Percy, Sabalus will hanne thy soughle,
Giff mo thou doest amate grete Rowley's yellowe rolle.
VI
Tyrwhytte, thoughe clergyonned in Geoffroie's leare,Yette scalle yat leare stonde thee in drybblet stedde.
Geoffroie wythe Rowley how maiest thoue comphere?
Rowley hanne mottes, yat ne manne ever redde,
Ne couthe bewryenne inne anie syngle tyme,
Yet reynneythe echeone mole, in newe and swotie ryme.
VII
And yerfore, faitour, in ashrewed houreFrom Rowley's poyntel thou the lode dydst take.
Botte lo! our Deane scalle wythe forweltrynge fhuir
Thy wytte as pynant as thie bowke ymake;
And plonce thee inne Archaeologic mudde,
As thou ydreinted were in Severne's mokie fludde,
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VIII
So have I seen, in Edinborrowe-towne,A ladie faire in wympled paramente
Abbrodden goe, whanne on her powrethe downe
A mollock hepe, from opper oryal sente;
Who, whanne shee lookethe on her unswote geare,
Han liefer ben beshet thanne in thilke steynct aumere.
IX
“Spryte of mie Graie,” the minstrelle Maifonne cries,“Some cherisaunie 'tys to mie sadde harte
“That thou, whose fetive poesie I pryze,
“Wythe Pyndarre kynge of mynstrells lethlen arte.
“Else nowe thie wytte to dernie roin han come,
“For havynge protoslene grete Rowley's hie renome.
X
“Yette, giff thou sojourned in this earthly vale,“Johnson atte thee had broched no neder stynge;
“Hee, cravent, the ystorven dothe assayle,
“Butte atte the quyck ne dares hys venome flynge.
“Quyck or ystorven, giff I kenne aryghte,
“Ne Johnson, ne Deane Mylle, scalle e'er agrose thie spryte.”
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XI
Butte, minstrelle Maisonne, blyn thie chyrckeynge dynne;On thee scalle be bewrecked grete Rowley's wronge;
Thou wythe thie compheere Graie dydde furst begynne
To speke inne deignous denwere offe hys songe,
And, wythe enstroted Warpool, deemed hys laies
Freshe as newe rhyms ydropte inne ladie Myller's vase.
XII
Oh Warpool, ne dydde thatte borne vase conteyneThilke swotie excremente of poete's leare;
Encaled was thie hearte as carnes ybene,
Soe to asterte hys sweft-keryed scryvennere.
Thy synne doe Loverde Advocate's surpasse,
Starvation bee thou nempte, thou broder of Dundasse.
XIII
Enough of thilke adrames, and strains like these;Speckled wythe uncouth words like leopard's skin;
Yet bright as Avon gliding o'er her mees,
And soft as ermine robe that wraps a king;
Here, furste of wiseggers, I quit thy gloss,
Nor more with Gothic terms my modern lays emboss.
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XIV
For vearse lyche thysse been as a puddynge fayre,At Hocktyde feaste by gouler cooke besprente
Wythe scanty plumbes, yat shemmer heere and there,
Like estells in the eve-merk fermamente,
So that a schoolboie maie with plaie, not paine,
Pycke echeone plumbe awaie, and leave the puddynge playne.
XV
Yet still each line shall flow as sweet and clear,As Rowley's self had writ them in his roll;
So they, perchance, may sooth thy sapient ear,
If aught but obsolete can touch thy soul.
Polish'd so pure by my poetic hand,
That kings themselves may read, and courtiers understand.
XVI
O mighty Milles, who o'er the realms of senseHast spread that murky antiquarian cloud,
Which blots out truth, eclipses evidence,
And taste and judgement veils in sable shroud;
Which makes a beardless boy a monkish priest.
Makes Homer string his lyre, and Milton ape his jest;
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XVII
Expand that cloud still broader, wond'rous Dean!In pity to thy poor Britannia's fate;
Spread it her past and present stare between,
Hide from her memory that she e'er was great,
That e'er her trident aw'd the subject sea,
Or e'er bid Gallia bow the proud reluctant knee.
XVIII
Tell her, for thou hast more than Mulgrave's wit,That France has long her naval strength surpast,
That Sandwich and Germaine alone are fit
To shield her from the desolating blast;
And prove the fact, as Rowley's being, clear,
That loans on loans and loans her empty purse will bear.
XIX
Bid all her lords, obsequious to command,As lords that best befit a land like this,
Take valiant Viscount Sackville by the hand,
Bid Bishops greet him with a holy kiss,
For forming plans to quell the rebel-tribe,
Whose execution foil'd all bravery, and all bribe.
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XX
Teach her, two British armies both subdued,That still the free American will yield;
Like Macbeth's Witch, bid her “Spill much more blood,”
And stain with brethren's gore the flooded field;
Nor sheath the sword, till o'er one little isle
In snug domestic pomp her king shall reign and smile.
XXI
So from a Dean'ry “rising in thy trade,”And puff'd with lawn by Byshoppe-millanere,
Ev'n glommed York, of thy amede afraid,
At Lollard's Tower with spyryng eye shall peer,
Where thou, like Ælla's spryte, shalt glare on high,
The triple crown to seize, if old Cornwallis die.
FINIS.
| An archaeological epistle to the Reverend and Worshipful Jeremiah Milles | |