London bells sweetly rung,
Whittington, back return!"
"Turn again Whittington: For thou in time shall grow Lord-Mayor of London.' Whereupon back again Whittington came with speed. A 'prentice to remain,
As the Lord had decreed.
"Still blesséd be the bells
(This was his daily song);
They my good fortune tells,
Most sweetly have they rung.
If God so favour me,
I will not prove unkind;
London my love shall see,
And my great bounties find."
But see his happy chance!
This scullion had a cat,
Which did his state advance,
And by it wealth he gat.
His master ventured forth,
To a land far unknown,
With merchandise of worth,
As is in stories shown.
Whittington had no more
But this poor cat as than,
Which to the ship he bore,
Like a brave merchant-man,
'Venturing the same," quoth he,
"I may get store of gold,
And Mayor of London be,
As the bells have me told."
Whittington's merchandise
Carried was to a land
Troubled with rats and mice,
As they did understand.
The king of that country there,
As he at dinner sat,
Daily remained in fear
Of many a mouse and rat.
Meat that on trenchers lay,
No way they could keep safe;
But by rats borne away,
Fearing no wand or staff.
Whereupon soon they brought
Whittington's nimble cat;
Which by the king was bought;
Heaps of gold given for that.
Home again came these men
With their ships loaden so,
Whittington's wealth began
By this cat thus to grow.
Scullion's life he forsook
To be a merchant good,
And soon began to look
How well his credit stood.
After that he was chose
Sheriff of the city here,
And then full quickly rose
Higher, as did appear.
For to this cities praise,
Sir Richard Whittington
Came to be in his days,
Thrice Mayor of London.
More his fame to advance
Thousands he lent his king To maintain wars in France, Glory from thence to bring.
And after, at a feast
Which he the king did make
He burnt the bonds all in jest,
And would no money take.
Ten thousand pounds he gave
To his prince willingly,
And would not one penny have;
This in kind courtesie.
God did thus make him great,
So would he daily see
Poor people fed with meat,
To show his charity.
Prisoners poor cherished were,
Widows sweet comfort found;
Good deeds, both far and near,
Of him do still resound.
Whittington College is
One of his charities;
Records reporteth this
To lasting memories.
THE ROYAL PLANTAGENET GRAVES AT WINDSOR
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY
HENRY, thou of saintly worth,
Thou to whom thy Windsor gave
Nativity, and name and grave:
Thou art in this hallowed earth
Cradled for thy heavenly birth.
Heavily upon his head
Ancestral crimes were visited.
He, in spirit like a child,
Meek of heart and undefiled,
Patiently his crown resigned,
And fixed on heaven his heavenly mind. Blessing, while he kissed the rod,
His Redeemer and his God.
Passive as that humble spirit
Lies his bold dethroner too;
A dreadful debt did he inherit,
To his injured lineage due.
Ill-starred prince, whose martial merit
His own England long might rue.
Mournful was that Edward's name,
Won in fields contested well,
While he sought his rightful claim.
Witness Aire's unhappy water,
Where the ruthless Clifford fell,
And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter,
On the day of Towton's field,
Gathering in its guilty flood
The carnage and the ill-spilt blood
That forty thousand lives could yield.
Crecy was to this but sport,
Poictiers but a pageant vain,
And the work of Agincourt
Only like a tournament!
King Henry, Westmoreland, and others.
K. HEN. So shaken as we are, so wan with care Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in strands afar remote.
Therefore we meet not now:-Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our counsel did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.
WEST. My liege, this haste was hot in question, And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight; when, all athwart, there came
A post from Wales, loaden with heavy news ;
Whose worst was,-that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower,
Was by the rude hands of that Welchman taken,
And a thousand of his people butchered:
Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,
Such beastly shameless transformation,
By those Welchmen done, as may not be,
Without much shame, re-told or spoken of.
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