Part 2

Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man: They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings, With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air, And hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, Promised to Harry and his followers. The French, advised by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural!

AT SEA

Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies In motion of no less celerity Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning: Play with your fancies, and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing; For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow: Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance; For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d With one appearing hair, that will not follow These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?

KING HARRY TO HIS SOLDIERS

(_At the Siege of Harfleur_)

‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard favour’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock O’er hang and jutty his confounded base, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot; Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”’

THE EVE OF BATTLE

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix’d sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch: Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umbered face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation: The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and over-lusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently and inly ruminate The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, Presenteth them unto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruin’d band Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’ For forth he goes and visits all his host, Bids them good morrow with a modest smile And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal like the sun His liberal eye doth give to everyone, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly.

KING HARRY’S PRAYER

‘O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord, O, not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard’s body have interred new; And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears Than from it issued forced drops of blood: Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.’

St. Crispin’s Day at Agincourt

(_King Harry to his Soldiers_)

‘This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say ‘To-morrow is saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered; And gentlemen in England now abed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’

THE WELCOME HOME

Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea, Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the king Seems to prepare his way: so let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath, Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruisèd helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city: he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, Giving full trophy, signal and ostent Quite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of the antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in.

_William Shakespeare._

VIII

WOLSEY TO CROMWELL

‘Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; And,--Prithee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.’

_William Shakespeare._

ANONYMOUS

IX

BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY

The fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field: The most conspicuous officers Were English captains three, But the bravest man in battel Was brave Lord Willoughby.

The next was Captain Norris, A valiant man was he: The other, Captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with forty thousand then Upon the bloody shore.

‘Stand to it, noble pikemen, And look you round about: And shoot you right, you bowmen, And we will keep them out: You musket and cailìver men, Do you prove true to me, I’ll be the bravest man in fight,’ Says brave Lord Willoughby.

And then the bloody enemy They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most valiantly Not doubting to prevail: The wounded men on both sides fell Most piteous for to see, Yet nothing could the courage quell Of brave Lord Willoughby.

For seven hours to all men’s view This fight endurèd sore, Until our men so feeble grew That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they eat, And drank the puddle water, They could no better get.

When they had fed so freely, They kneelèd on the ground, And praisèd God devoutly For the favour they had found; And bearing up their colours, The fight they did renew, And cutting tow’rds the Spaniard, Five thousand more they slew.

The sharp steel-pointed arrows And bullets thick did fly, Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously: Which made the Spaniards waver, They thought it best to flee: They feared the stout behaviour Of brave Lord Willoughby.

Then quoth the Spanish general, ‘Come let us march away, I fear we shall be spoilèd all If that we longer stay: For yonder comes Lord Willoughby With courage fierce and fell, He will not give one inch of ground For all the devils in hell.’

And when the fearful enemy Was quickly put to flight, Our men pursued courageously To rout his forces quite; And at last they gave a shout Which echoed through the sky: ‘God and Saint George for England!’ The conquerors did cry.

This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious Queen was told Of this same victory. ‘O! this is brave Lord Willoughby My love that ever won: Of all the lords of honour ’Tis he great deeds hath done!’

To the soldiers that were maimèd, And wounded in the fray, The Queen allowed a pension Of eighteen pence a day, And from all costs and charges She quit and set them free; And this she did all for the sake Of brave Lord Willoughby.

Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismayed! If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foreign enemies, And set our country free, And thus I end the bloody bout Of brave Lord Willoughby.

_Anonymous._

X

THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL

Attend you, and give ear awhile, And you shall understand Of a battle fought upon the seas By a ship of brave command. The fight it was so glorious Men’s hearts it did fulfil, And it made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea, With the _Angel Gabriel_!’

This lusty ship of Bristol, Sailed out adventurously Against the foes of England, Her strength with them to try; Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, With good provision still, Which made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea, With the _Angel Gabriel_!’

The Captain, famous Netherway (That was his noble name); The Master--he was called John Mines-- A mariner of fame: The Gunner, Thomas Watson, A man of perfect skill: With many another valiant heart In the _Angel Gabriel_.

They waving up and down the seas Upon the ocean main, ‘It is not long ago,’ quoth they, ‘That England fought with Spain: O would the Spaniard we might meet Our stomachs to fulfil! We would play him fair a noble bout With our _Angel Gabriel_!’

They had no sooner spoken But straight appeared in sight Three lusty Spanish vessels Of warlike trim and might; With bloody resolution They thought our men to spill, And vowed that they would make a prize Of our _Angel Gabriel_.

Our gallant ship had in her Full forty fighting men; With twenty piece of ordnance We played about them then, With powder, shot, and bullets Right well we worked our will, And hot and bloody grew the fight With our _Angel Gabriel_.

Our Captain to our Master said, ‘Take courage, Master bold!’ Our Master to the seamen said, ‘Stand fast, my hearts of gold!’ Our Gunner unto all the rest, ‘Brave hearts, be valiant still! Fight on, fight on in the defence Of our _Angel Gabriel_!’

We gave them such a broadside It smote their mast asunder, And tore the bowsprit off their ship, Which made the Spaniards wonder, And causèd them in fear to cry, With voices loud and shrill, ‘Help, help, or sunken we shall be By the _Angel Gabriel_!’

So desperately they boarded us For all our valiant shot, Threescore of their best fighting men Upon our decks were got; And lo! at their first entrances Full thirty did we kill, And thus with speed we cleared the deck Of our _Angel Gabriel_.

With that their three ships boarded us Again with might and main, But still our noble Englishmen Cried out ‘A fig for Spain!’ Though seven times they boarded us At last we showed our skill, And made them feel what men we were On the _Angel Gabriel_.

Seven hours this fight continued: So many men lay dead, With Spanish blood for fathoms round The sea was coloured red. Five hundred of their fighting men We there outright did kill, And many more were hurt and maimed By our _Angel Gabriel_.

Then seeing of these bloody spoils, The rest made haste away: For why, they said, it was no boot The longer there to stay. Then they fled into Calès, Where lie they must and will For fear lest they should meet again With our _Angel Gabriel_.

We had within our English ship But only three men slain, And five men hurt, the which I hope Will soon be well again. At Bristol we were landed, And let us praise God still, That thus hath blest our lusty hearts And our _Angel Gabriel_.

_Anonymous._

MILTON

XI

TO THE LORD GENERAL

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud, Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud Hast reared God’s trophies, and His work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.

_John Milton._

XII

DELIVERANCE

O how comely it is, and how reviving To the spirits of just men long oppress’d! When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, The brute and boisterous force of violent men, Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth; He all their ammunition And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour arm’d; Their armouries and magazines contemns, Renders them useless; while With winged expedition, Swift as the lightning glance, he executes His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.

_John Milton._

MARVELL

XIII

HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND

The forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.

’Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unusèd armour’s rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgèd his active star:

And, like the three-fork’d lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide:

For ’tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such to inclose Is more than to oppose;

Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar’s head at last Did through his laurels blast.

’Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven’s flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due

Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould;

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain-- (But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak),

Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art,

Where, twining subtile fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook’s narrow case,

That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armèd bands Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe’s edge did try;

Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow’d his comely head Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcèd power: So, when they did design The Capitol’s first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That doth both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic’s hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!),

He to the Commons’ feet presents A Kingdom for his first year’s rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the Public’s skirt So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year?

As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-coloured mind, But from this valour sad Shrink underneath the plaid.

Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

_Andrew Marvell._

XIV

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA

Where the remote Bermudas ride In the Ocean’s bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song. ‘What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze, Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelates’ rage: He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land, And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. O let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!’ Thus sang they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

_Andrew Marvell._

PARKER

XV

THE KING’S EXILE