Soe wylle wee beere the Dacyanne armie downe,
And throughe a storme of blodde wyll reache the champyon crowne.
(_Ælla_, 631.)

Loverdes, how doughtilie the tylterrs joyne!
(_Tournament_, 92.).

In fine, there is no poet, one may boldly declare,
whose pages are so filled with battle, murder and sudden death, as
Chatterton's are; and this is perhaps the clearest indication he gives
of immaturity.

But if his ideas were sometimes crude and boyish they were not by any
means always so; he has flashes of genius, sudden beauties that take
away the breath. A better example than this of what is called the
sublime could not be found:

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude.
(_Ælla_, 872.)

and, from the _Songe bie a Manne and Womanne_,

I heare them from eche grene wode tree,
Chauntynge owte so blatauntlie,
Tellynge lecturnyes to mee,
Myscheefe ys whanne you are nygh.
(_Ælla_, 107.)