Whyche axed me, Her name, she sayd, was called COUNTENAUNCE; Of whyche there flowed foure ryvers ryght clere, I dyd than taste the aromatyke lycoure, And after thys further forth me brought Of golde was made a ryght crafty vyne; The fore was paved with berall clarified, V. 44, besy courte. P. C. V. 49, partyes, P. C. 3 Nysus P. C. The hall was hanged hye and circuler Of the doubty waye to the Tower Perillous 4; 70 XI. The Child of Elle. Is given from a fragment in the Editor's folio MS.; which, though extremely defective and mutilated, appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt a completion of the story. The reader will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time be inclined to pardon it, when he considers how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original. Child was a title sometimes given to a knight. See Gloss. ON yonder hill a castle standes, The Child of Elle to his garden wente, 5 And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Y-wis he stoode not stille, 10 And soone he mette faire Emmelines page Come climbing up the hille. Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, And aye she laments the deadlye feude 20 And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, And here shee sends thee a ring of golde 25 And biddes thee weare it for her sake, For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, 30 Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee. Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, And within three dayes shee must him wedde, Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And telle her that I her owne true love Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe, 35 40 The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, 45 O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love, 50 This night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe, Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, All save the ladye Emmeline, 55 Who sate in her bowre to weepe: Come, mount this faire palfraye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, 65 For aye sould I tint my maiden fame, O ladye, thou with a knighte so true, 70 To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, "My father he is a baron bolde, Of lynage proude and hye; And what would he saye if his daughter 75 Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, Nor his meate should doe him no goode, Till he had slayne thee, Child of Elle, And seene thy deare hearts bloode." O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 80 I would not care for thy cruel father, O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 85 I would not care for thy cruel father, Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 90 At length he seizde her lilly-white hand, Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee. Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Awake, my noble dame! Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle, To doe the deede of shame. 100 105 |