Better the quick release of glorious wounds,
Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues;
Better the spear-head quivering in the heart,
Than daily struggle against fortune's curse;
Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood,
To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge
In poverty, dull pain, and base decay.
Once more, I
say, - are ye resolved?
(The soldiers shout, "All! All!") Then, each man to his tent, and take the arms That he would love to die in,- for, this hour, We storm the Consul's camp. A last farewell! (He takes their hands.)
When next we meet, we'll have no time to look,
How parting clouds a soldier's countenance.
Few as we are, we 'll rouse them with a peal
That shall shake Rome !
Now to your cohorts' heads; - the word 's-
Revenge!
THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.
FAIR stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kause, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry,
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched towards Agincourt
In happy hour,
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay
With all his power,
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed;
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raisèd.
And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be ;
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me,
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies.
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led ;
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen, Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there:
O Lord! how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone;
Armor on armor shone;
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham !
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm, suddenly,
The English archery
Struck the French horses
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And, like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent;
Scalps to the teeth were rent;
Down the French peasants went ;
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother,
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon St. Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled 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.
Dishonor not your mothers; now attest,
That those whom you called fathers, did beget
you!
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war! - And you, good
Whose limbs were made in England, show us
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding: which I
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 !
OF THE WARRES IN IRELAND.
FROM "EPIGRAMS," BOOK IV. EP. 6.
I PRAISED the speech, but cannot now abide it,
That warre is sweet to those that have not try'd it;
For I have proved it now and plainly see 't,
It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.
At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome;
Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome.
THE KING TO HIS SOLDIERS BEFORE There without baked, rost, boyl'd, it is no cheere;
FROM "KING HENRY V.,” ACT III. SC. 1.
Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here.
There we complaine of one wan rosted chick ;
Here meat worse cookt ne're makes us sick.
ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, At home in silken sparrers, beds of Down,
Or elose 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-favored rage :
Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct ;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
We scant can rest, but still tosse up and down;
Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow,
A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow.
There if a child but cry, O what a spite!
Here we can brook three larums in one night.
There homely rooms must be perfumed with
Here match and powder ne're offend our noses.
There from a storm of rain we run like Pullets;
Here we stand fast against a showre of bullets.
"Now praised be God, the day is won!
They fly, o'er flood and fell, Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good knight, that fought so well?"
"O, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said, "And leave the dead to me, For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree!
"There lies, above his master's heart,
The Douglas, stark and grim; And woe is me I should be here, Not side by side with him!
"The world grows cold, my arm is old, And thin my lyart hair,
And all that I loved best on earth
Is stretched before me there.
"O Bothwell banks, that bloom so bright Beneath the sun of May!
The heaviest cloud that ever blew
Is bound for you this day.
"And Scotland! thou mayst veil thy head In sorrow and in pain
The sorest stroke upon thy brow
Hath fallen this day in Spain !
"We'll bear them back unto our ship,
We'll bear them o'er the sea,
And lay them in the hallowed earth
Within our own countrie.
"And be thou strong of heart, Lord King,
For this I tell thee sure,
The sod that drank the Douglas' blood
Shall never bear the Moor!
The King he lighted from his horse,
He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.
"God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!
That fought so well for Spain;
I'd rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!"
We bore the good Lord James away, And the priceless heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore.
No welcome greeted our return,
Nor clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death Before the mighty dead.
We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The heart in fair Melrose
And woful men were we that day,
God grant their souls repose!
WILLIAM EDMUNDSTONE AYTOUN.
HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.
FROM KING HENRY IV.," PART I. ACT I. SC. 3.
BUT I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumèd like a milliner ;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took 't away again;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:-and still he smiled and talked ;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly, I know not what,
He should, or he should not; for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds,
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly, and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.
FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART 1.
His puissant sword unto his side Near his undaunted heart was tied, With basket hilt that would hold broth, And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
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