IAGINCOURTINTROITO for a Muse of fire, that would ascendThe brightest heaven of invention,A kingdom for a stage, princes to actAnd monarchs to behold the swelling scene!Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,Leashed in like hounds, should Famine, Sword and FireCrouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,The flat unraisèd spirits that have daredOn this unworthy scaffold to bring forthSo great an object. Can this cockpit holdThe vasty fields of France? or may we cramWithin this wooden O the very casquesThat did affright the air at Agincourt?O pardon! since a crooked figure mayAttest in little place a million,And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,On your imaginary forces work.Suppose within the girdle of these wallsAre now confined two mighty monarchies,Whose high uprearèd and abutting frontsThe perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;Into a thousand parts divide one man,And make imaginary puissance;Think, when we talk of horses, that you see themPrinting their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,Turning the accomplishment of many yearsInto an hour-glass.INTERLUDENow all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thoughtReigns 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 pointWith crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,Promised to Harry and his followers.The French, advised by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear, and with pale policySeek 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!But see thy fault: France hath in thee found outA nest of hollow bosoms, which he fillsWith treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,Have for the gilt of France—O guilt indeed!—Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France;And by their hands this grace of kings must die,If hell and treason hold their promises,Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton!—HARFLEURThus with imagined wing our swift scene fliesIn motion of no less celerityThan that of thought. Suppose that you have seenThe well-appointed king at Hampton PierEmbark his royalty, and his brave fleetWith silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:Play with your fancies, and in them beholdUpon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;Hear the shrill whistle which doth order giveTo sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,Borne with the invisible and creeping windDraw the huge bottoms through the furrowed seaBreasting the lofty surge. O, do but thinkYou stand upon the rivage and beholdA 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,Or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;For who is he, whose chin is but enrichedWith one appearing hair, that will not followThese culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege:Behold the ordnance on their carriages,With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back;Tells Harry that the king doth offer himKatharine his daughter, and with her to dowrySome petty and unprofitable dukedoms.The offer likes not: and the nimble gunnerWith linstock now the devilish cannon touches,And down goes all before them!THE EVENow entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp through the foul womb of nightThe hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fixed sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other's watch:Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach battle sees the other's umbered face;Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighsPiercing the night's dull ear, and from the tentsThe 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 FrenchDo the low-rated English play at dice,And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited nightWho like a foul and ugly witch doth limpSo tediously away. The poor condemnèd English,Like sacrifices, by their watchful firesSit patiently and inly ruminateThe morning's danger, and their gesture sad,Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,Presenteth them unto the gazing moonSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will beholdThe royal captain of this ruined bandWalking 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 noteHow dread an army hath enrounded him;Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colourUnto the weary and all-watchèd night,But freshly looks and over-bears attaintWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty,That every wretch, pining and pale before,Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.A largess universal like the sunHis liberal eye doth give to every one,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.Shakespeare.THE BATTLEFair stood the wind for France,When we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial train,Landed King Harry.And taking many a fort,Furnished in warlike sort,Marched towards AgincourtIn happy hour,Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopped his way,Where the French gen'ral layWith all his power:Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideTo the king sending;Which he neglects the whileAs from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,‘Though they to one be ten,Be not amazèd.Yet have we well begun,Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy 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 remainOr on this earth lie slain;Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell;No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopped the French lilies.’The Duke of York so dreadThe 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 wereOn the false Frenchmen!They now to fight are gone,Armour on armour shone,Drum now to drum did groan,To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake,Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham,Which did the signal aimTo our hid forces!When from the meadow by,Like a storm suddenly,The English archeryStruck 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 heartsStuck close together.When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilbos 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 dingAs to o'erwhelm it,And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruisèd 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 fightScarce 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 WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.Upon Saint Crispin's DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delay,To England to carry.O, when shall EnglishmenWith such acts fill a pen,Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?Drayton.AFTERNow we bear the kingToward Calais: grant him there; there seen,Heave him away upon your wingèd thoughtsAthwart the sea. Behold, the English beachPales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed sea,Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the kingSeems to prepare his way: so let him land,And solemnly see him set on to London.So swift a pace hath thought that even nowYou may imagine him upon Blackheath;Where that his lords desire him to have borneHis bruisèd helmet and his bended swordBefore 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!Shakespeare.IILORD OF HIMSELFHow happy is he born or taughtWho serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his highest skill;Whose passions not his masters are;Whose soul is still prepared for death—Not tied unto the world with careOf prince's ear or vulgar breath;Who hath his ear from rumours freed;Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make oppressors great;Who envies none whom chance doth raise,Or vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given with praise,Nor rules of state but rules of good;Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend,And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend—This man is free from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall:Lord of himself, though not of lands,And, having nothing, yet hath all.Wotton.IIITRUE BALMHigh-spirited friend,I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound;Your faith hath foundA gentler and more agile hand to tendThe cure of that which is but corporal,And doubtful days, which were named critical,Have made their fairest flightAnd now are out of sight.Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind,Wrapped in this paper lie,Which in the taking if you misapplyYou are unkind.Your covetous hand,Happy in that fair honour it hath gained,Must now be reined.True valour doth her own renown commendIn one full action; nor have you now moreTo do than be a husband of that store.Think but how dear you boughtThis same which you have caught—Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth'Tis wisdom, and that high,For men to use their fortune reverently,Even in youth.Jonson.IVHONOUR IN BUDIt is not growing like a treeIn bulk doth make man better be:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May:Although it fall and die that night,It was the plant and flower of light.Jonson.VTHE JOY OF BATTLEArm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in;Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win.Behold from yonder hill the foe appears;Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears!Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring;O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring!The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums!Dub, dub!They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes:See how the arrows flyThat darken all the sky!Hark how the trumpets sound!Hark how the hills rebound—Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!Hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in!The battle totters; now the wounds begin:O how they cry!O how they die!Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder!See how he breaks the ranks asunder!They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase,And brave Polybius makes good his place:To the plains, to the woods,To the rocks, to the floods,They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow!Hark how the soldiers hollow!Hey, hey!Brave Diocles is dead,And all his soldiers fled;The battle's won, and lost,That many a life hath cost.Fletcher.VIIN WESTMINSTER ABBEYMortality, behold and fear!What a change of flesh is here!Think how many royal bonesSleep beneath this heap of stones!Here they lie had realms and lands,Who now want strength to stir their hands.Here from their pulpits sealed with dustThey preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’Here is an acre sown indeedWith the richest, royall'st seedThat the earth did e'er suck in,Since the first man died for sin.Here the bones of birth have cried,‘Though gods they were, as men they died.’Here are sands, ignoble things,Dropt from the ruined sides of kings.Here's a world of pomp and state,Buried in dust, once dead by fate.Beaumont.VIIGOING A-MAYINGGet up, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn:See how Aurora throws her fairFresh-quilted colours through the air:Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and seeThe dew-bespangled herb and tree!Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,Above an hour since, yet you not drest,Nay, not so much as out of bed?When all the birds have matins said,And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,Nay, profanation, to keep in,Whenas a thousand virgins on this daySpring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seenTo come forth like the spring-time fresh and green,And sweet as Flora. Take no careFor jewels for your gown or hair:Fear not; the leaves will strewGems in abundance upon you:Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.Come, and receive them while the lightHangs on the dew-locks of the night,And Titan on the eastern hillRetires himself, or else stands stillTill you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each street a park,Made green and trimmed with trees! see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr branch! each porch, each door, ere this,An ark, a tabernacle is,Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.Can such delights be in the streetAnd open fields, and we not see 't?Come, we'll abroad: and let's obeyThe proclamation made for May,And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.There's not a budding boy or girl this day,But is got up and gone to bring in May.A deal of youth ere this is comeBack and with white-thorn laden home.Some have despatched their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth,And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:Many a green-gown has been given,Many a kiss, both odd and even:Many a glance too has been sentFrom out the eye, love's firmament:Many a jest told of the keys betrayingThis night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-Maying.Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,And take the harmless folly of the time!We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore we know our liberty.Our life is short, and our days runAs fast away as does the sun.And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,Once lost can ne'er be found again,So when or you or I are madeA fable, song, or fleeting shade,All love, all liking, all delight,Lies drowned with us in endless night.Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.Herrick.VIIITO ANTHEAWHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHINGBid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be;Or bid me love and I will giveA loving heart to thee.A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and free,As in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.Bid that heart stay, and it will stayTo honour thy decree;Or bid it languish quite away,And 't shall do so for thee.Bid me to weep, and I will weepWhile I have eyes to see;And, having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.Bid me despair, and I'll despairUnder that cypress-tree;Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en death to die for thee.Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me,And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.Herrick.IXMEMENTO MORISweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright—The bridal of the earth and sky—The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soulLike seasoned timber never gives,But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.Herbert.XTHE KING OF KINGSThe glories of our birth and stateAre shadows, not substantial things:There is no armour against fate:Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crookèd scythe and spade.Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels when they kill,But their strong nerves at last must yield:They tame but one another still.Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.The garlands wither on their brow—Then boast no more your mighty deeds!Upon Death's purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds!All heads must comeTo the cold tomb:Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.Shirley.XILYCIDASYet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn,And, as he passes, turnAnd bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove afield, and both together heardWhat time the grey-fly winds her sultry hornBattening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening brightTowards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long;And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert cavesWith wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn.The willows and the hazel copses greenShall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays,As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wearWhen first the white-thorn blows,Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds' ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steepWhere your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:Ay me! I fondly dream‘Had ye been there,’ ... for what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her enchanting sonWhom universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roarHis gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shadeOr with the tangles of Neæra's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears,And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,’Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears:‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood!But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the Herald of the SeaThat came in Neptune's plea.He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakèd promontory:They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panope with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.‘Ah! who hath reft,’ quoth he, ‘my dearest pledge?’Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean Lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as for their bellies' sakeCreep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning makeThan how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And, when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said:But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is pastThat shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyesThat on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine,The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.For, so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded mountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and loveThere entertain him all the Saints above,In solemn troops and sweet societiesThat sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the genius of the shoreIn thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals grey;He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay:At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.Milton.XIIARMS AND THE MUSEWHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED ON THE CITYCaptain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,If deed of honour did thee ever please,Guard them, and him within protect from harms.He can requite thee; for he knows the charmsThat call fame on such gentle acts as these,And he can spread thy name o'er land and seas,Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:The great Emanthian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground; and the repeated airOf sad Electra's poet had the powerTo save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.Milton.XIIITO THE LORD GENERALCromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloudNot 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 proudHast 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 remainsTo conquer still; peace hath her victoriesNo less renowned than war: new foes arise,Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.Help us to save free conscience from the pawOf hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.Milton.XIVTHE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONTAvenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bonesLie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,Forget not: in thy book record their groansWho were thy sheep, and in their ancient foldSlain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolledMother with infant down the rocks. Their moansThe vales redoubled to the hills, and theyTo heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sowO'er all the Italian fields, where still doth swayThe triple Tyrant; that from these may growA hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,Early may fly the Babylonian woe.Milton.XVON HIS BLINDNESSWhen I consider how my light is spentEre half my days in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He, returning, chide;‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’I fondly ask: but patience, to preventThat murmur soon replies: ‘God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts. Who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His stateIs kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,And post o'er land and ocean without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait.’Milton.XVIEYELESS AT GAZAThis, this is he; softly a while;Let us not break in upon him.O change beyond report, thought, or belief!See how he lies at random, carelessly diffusedWith languished head unpropt,As one past hope, abandonèd,And by himself given over,In slavish habit, ill-fitted weedsO'er-worn and soiled.Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he,That heroic, that renowned,Irresistible Samson? whom unarmedNo strength of man or fiercest wild beast could withstand;Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid;Ran on embattled armies clad in iron,And, weaponless himself,Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgeryOf brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass,Chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mailAdamantéan proof: But safest he who stood aloof,When insupportably his foot advanced,In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools,Spurned them to death by troops. The bold AscaloniteFled from his lion ramp; old warriors turnedTheir plated backs under his heel,Or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust.Milton.XVIIOUT OF ADVERSITYO how comely it is, and how revivingTo the spirits of just men long oppressed,When God into the hands of their delivererPuts invincible mightTo quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor,The brute and boisterous force of violent men,Hardy and industrious to supportTyrannic power, but raging to pursueThe righteous and all such as honour truth!He all their ammunitionAnd feats of war defeats,With plain heroic magnitude of mindAnd celestial vigour armed;Their armouries and magazines contemns,Renders them useless, whileWith wingèd expeditionSwift as the lightning glance he executesHis errand on the wicked, who, surprised,Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.Milton.XVIIIHEROIC LOVEMy dear and only love, I prayThat little world of theeBe governed by no other swayBut purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part,Which virtuous souls abhor,And hold a synod in thy heart,I'll never love thee more.Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone:My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,Who dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.But, if thou wilt prove faithful thenAnd constant of thy word,I'll make thee glorious by my pen,And famous by my sword;I'll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I'll crown and deck thee all with baysAnd love thee more and more.Montrose.XIXGOING TO THE WARSTell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mindTo war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field,And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you too shall adore:I could not love thee, Dear, so muchLoved I not Honour more.Lovelace.XXFROM PRISONWhen Love with unconfinèd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fettered to her eye,The Gods that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.When flowing cups run swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses crowned,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free,Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.When, linnet-like confinèd, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my King;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlargèd winds that curl the floodKnow no such liberty.Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage:If I have freedom in my loveAnd in my soul am free,Angels alone that soar aboveEnjoy such liberty.Lovelace.XXITWO KINGSThe forward youth that would appearMust now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.'Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unusèd armour's rust,Removing from the wallThe corselet of the hall.So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgèd his active star;And, like the three-forked lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide;For 'tis all one to courage high,The emulous or enemy,And with such to incloseIs more than to oppose;Then burning through the air he went,And palaces and temples rent;And Cæsar's head at lastDid through his laurels blast.'Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry Heaven's flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the man is due,Who from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservèd and austere,As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot,Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of Time,And cast the kingdoms oldInto 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 hated emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.What field of all the civil war,Where his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,Where, twining subtile fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook's narrow case,That thence the royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the armèd bands,Did clap their bloody hands.He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;Nor called the gods with vulgar spiteTo vindicate his helpless right,But bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed.This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcèd power:So, when they did designThe Capitol's first line,A bleeding head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat doth both act and know.They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confessedHow 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 presentsA kingdom for his first year's rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame to make it theirs:And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the public's skirt.So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,She, having killed, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.What may not then our isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all states not freeShall climacteric be.The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his party-coloured mind,But from this valour sadShrink underneath the plaid;Happy if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe 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 frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gain,A power must it maintain.Marvell.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascendThe brightest heaven of invention,A kingdom for a stage, princes to actAnd monarchs to behold the swelling scene!Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,Leashed in like hounds, should Famine, Sword and FireCrouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,The flat unraisèd spirits that have daredOn this unworthy scaffold to bring forthSo great an object. Can this cockpit holdThe vasty fields of France? or may we cramWithin this wooden O the very casquesThat did affright the air at Agincourt?O pardon! since a crooked figure mayAttest in little place a million,And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,On your imaginary forces work.Suppose within the girdle of these wallsAre now confined two mighty monarchies,Whose high uprearèd and abutting frontsThe perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;Into a thousand parts divide one man,And make imaginary puissance;Think, when we talk of horses, that you see themPrinting their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,Turning the accomplishment of many yearsInto an hour-glass.
Now all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thoughtReigns 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 pointWith crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,Promised to Harry and his followers.The French, advised by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear, and with pale policySeek 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!But see thy fault: France hath in thee found outA nest of hollow bosoms, which he fillsWith treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,Have for the gilt of France—O guilt indeed!—Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France;And by their hands this grace of kings must die,If hell and treason hold their promises,Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton!—
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene fliesIn motion of no less celerityThan that of thought. Suppose that you have seenThe well-appointed king at Hampton PierEmbark his royalty, and his brave fleetWith silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:Play with your fancies, and in them beholdUpon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;Hear the shrill whistle which doth order giveTo sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,Borne with the invisible and creeping windDraw the huge bottoms through the furrowed seaBreasting the lofty surge. O, do but thinkYou stand upon the rivage and beholdA 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,Or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;For who is he, whose chin is but enrichedWith one appearing hair, that will not followThese culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege:Behold the ordnance on their carriages,With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back;Tells Harry that the king doth offer himKatharine his daughter, and with her to dowrySome petty and unprofitable dukedoms.The offer likes not: and the nimble gunnerWith linstock now the devilish cannon touches,And down goes all before them!
Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp through the foul womb of nightThe hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fixed sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other's watch:Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach battle sees the other's umbered face;Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighsPiercing the night's dull ear, and from the tentsThe 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 FrenchDo the low-rated English play at dice,And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited nightWho like a foul and ugly witch doth limpSo tediously away. The poor condemnèd English,Like sacrifices, by their watchful firesSit patiently and inly ruminateThe morning's danger, and their gesture sad,Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,Presenteth them unto the gazing moonSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will beholdThe royal captain of this ruined bandWalking 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 noteHow dread an army hath enrounded him;Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colourUnto the weary and all-watchèd night,But freshly looks and over-bears attaintWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty,That every wretch, pining and pale before,Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.A largess universal like the sunHis liberal eye doth give to every one,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.
Shakespeare.
Fair stood the wind for France,When we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial train,Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,Furnished in warlike sort,Marched towards AgincourtIn happy hour,Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopped his way,Where the French gen'ral layWith all his power:
Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideTo the king sending;Which he neglects the whileAs from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.
And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,‘Though they to one be ten,Be not amazèd.Yet have we well begun,Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy 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 remainOr on this earth lie slain;Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.
Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell;No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopped the French lilies.’
The Duke of York so dreadThe 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 wereOn the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,Armour on armour shone,Drum now to drum did groan,To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake,Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham,Which did the signal aimTo our hid forces!When from the meadow by,Like a storm suddenly,The English archeryStruck 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 heartsStuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilbos 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 dingAs to o'erwhelm it,And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruisèd 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 fightScarce 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 WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delay,To England to carry.O, when shall EnglishmenWith such acts fill a pen,Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?
Drayton.
Now we bear the kingToward Calais: grant him there; there seen,Heave him away upon your wingèd thoughtsAthwart the sea. Behold, the English beachPales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed sea,Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the kingSeems to prepare his way: so let him land,And solemnly see him set on to London.So swift a pace hath thought that even nowYou may imagine him upon Blackheath;Where that his lords desire him to have borneHis bruisèd helmet and his bended swordBefore 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!
Shakespeare.
How happy is he born or taughtWho serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his highest skill;
Whose passions not his masters are;Whose soul is still prepared for death—Not tied unto the world with careOf prince's ear or vulgar breath;
Who hath his ear from rumours freed;Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who envies none whom chance doth raise,Or vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given with praise,Nor rules of state but rules of good;
Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend,And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend—
This man is free from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall:Lord of himself, though not of lands,And, having nothing, yet hath all.
Wotton.
High-spirited friend,I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound;Your faith hath foundA gentler and more agile hand to tendThe cure of that which is but corporal,And doubtful days, which were named critical,Have made their fairest flightAnd now are out of sight.Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind,Wrapped in this paper lie,Which in the taking if you misapplyYou are unkind.
Your covetous hand,Happy in that fair honour it hath gained,Must now be reined.True valour doth her own renown commendIn one full action; nor have you now moreTo do than be a husband of that store.Think but how dear you boughtThis same which you have caught—Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth'Tis wisdom, and that high,For men to use their fortune reverently,Even in youth.
Jonson.
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk doth make man better be:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May:Although it fall and die that night,It was the plant and flower of light.
Jonson.
Arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in;Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win.Behold from yonder hill the foe appears;Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears!Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring;O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring!The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums!Dub, dub!
They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes:See how the arrows flyThat darken all the sky!Hark how the trumpets sound!Hark how the hills rebound—Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!
Hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in!The battle totters; now the wounds begin:O how they cry!O how they die!Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder!See how he breaks the ranks asunder!They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase,And brave Polybius makes good his place:To the plains, to the woods,To the rocks, to the floods,They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow!Hark how the soldiers hollow!Hey, hey!
Brave Diocles is dead,And all his soldiers fled;The battle's won, and lost,That many a life hath cost.
Fletcher.
Mortality, behold and fear!What a change of flesh is here!Think how many royal bonesSleep beneath this heap of stones!Here they lie had realms and lands,Who now want strength to stir their hands.Here from their pulpits sealed with dustThey preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’Here is an acre sown indeedWith the richest, royall'st seedThat the earth did e'er suck in,Since the first man died for sin.Here the bones of birth have cried,‘Though gods they were, as men they died.’Here are sands, ignoble things,Dropt from the ruined sides of kings.Here's a world of pomp and state,Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
Beaumont.
Get up, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn:See how Aurora throws her fairFresh-quilted colours through the air:Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and seeThe dew-bespangled herb and tree!Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,Above an hour since, yet you not drest,Nay, not so much as out of bed?When all the birds have matins said,And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,Nay, profanation, to keep in,Whenas a thousand virgins on this daySpring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seenTo come forth like the spring-time fresh and green,And sweet as Flora. Take no careFor jewels for your gown or hair:Fear not; the leaves will strewGems in abundance upon you:Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.Come, and receive them while the lightHangs on the dew-locks of the night,And Titan on the eastern hillRetires himself, or else stands stillTill you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each street a park,Made green and trimmed with trees! see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr branch! each porch, each door, ere this,An ark, a tabernacle is,Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.Can such delights be in the streetAnd open fields, and we not see 't?Come, we'll abroad: and let's obeyThe proclamation made for May,And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
There's not a budding boy or girl this day,But is got up and gone to bring in May.A deal of youth ere this is comeBack and with white-thorn laden home.Some have despatched their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth,And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:Many a green-gown has been given,Many a kiss, both odd and even:Many a glance too has been sentFrom out the eye, love's firmament:Many a jest told of the keys betrayingThis night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-Maying.
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,And take the harmless folly of the time!We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore we know our liberty.Our life is short, and our days runAs fast away as does the sun.And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,Once lost can ne'er be found again,So when or you or I are madeA fable, song, or fleeting shade,All love, all liking, all delight,Lies drowned with us in endless night.Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
Herrick.
Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be;Or bid me love and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and free,As in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stayTo honour thy decree;Or bid it languish quite away,And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weepWhile I have eyes to see;And, having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despairUnder that cypress-tree;Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me,And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.
Herrick.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright—The bridal of the earth and sky—The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soulLike seasoned timber never gives,But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.
Herbert.
The glories of our birth and stateAre shadows, not substantial things:There is no armour against fate:Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels when they kill,But their strong nerves at last must yield:They tame but one another still.Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on their brow—Then boast no more your mighty deeds!Upon Death's purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds!All heads must comeTo the cold tomb:Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
Shirley.
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn,And, as he passes, turnAnd bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove afield, and both together heardWhat time the grey-fly winds her sultry hornBattening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening brightTowards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long;And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert cavesWith wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn.The willows and the hazel copses greenShall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays,As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wearWhen first the white-thorn blows,Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds' ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steepWhere your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:Ay me! I fondly dream‘Had ye been there,’ ... for what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her enchanting sonWhom universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roarHis gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shadeOr with the tangles of Neæra's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears,And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,’Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears:‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood!But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the Herald of the SeaThat came in Neptune's plea.He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakèd promontory:They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panope with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.‘Ah! who hath reft,’ quoth he, ‘my dearest pledge?’Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean Lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as for their bellies' sakeCreep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning makeThan how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And, when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said:But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is pastThat shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyesThat on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine,The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.For, so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded mountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and loveThere entertain him all the Saints above,In solemn troops and sweet societiesThat sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the genius of the shoreIn thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals grey;He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay:At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
Milton.
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,If deed of honour did thee ever please,Guard them, and him within protect from harms.He can requite thee; for he knows the charmsThat call fame on such gentle acts as these,And he can spread thy name o'er land and seas,Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:The great Emanthian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground; and the repeated airOf sad Electra's poet had the powerTo save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
Milton.
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloudNot 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 proudHast 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 remainsTo conquer still; peace hath her victoriesNo less renowned than war: new foes arise,Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.Help us to save free conscience from the pawOf hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
Milton.
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bonesLie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,Forget not: in thy book record their groansWho were thy sheep, and in their ancient foldSlain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolledMother with infant down the rocks. Their moansThe vales redoubled to the hills, and theyTo heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sowO'er all the Italian fields, where still doth swayThe triple Tyrant; that from these may growA hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
Milton.
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He, returning, chide;‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’I fondly ask: but patience, to preventThat murmur soon replies: ‘God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts. Who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His stateIs kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,And post o'er land and ocean without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait.’
Milton.
This, this is he; softly a while;Let us not break in upon him.O change beyond report, thought, or belief!See how he lies at random, carelessly diffusedWith languished head unpropt,As one past hope, abandonèd,And by himself given over,In slavish habit, ill-fitted weedsO'er-worn and soiled.Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he,That heroic, that renowned,Irresistible Samson? whom unarmedNo strength of man or fiercest wild beast could withstand;Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid;Ran on embattled armies clad in iron,And, weaponless himself,Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgeryOf brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass,Chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mailAdamantéan proof: But safest he who stood aloof,When insupportably his foot advanced,In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools,Spurned them to death by troops. The bold AscaloniteFled from his lion ramp; old warriors turnedTheir plated backs under his heel,Or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust.
Milton.
O how comely it is, and how revivingTo the spirits of just men long oppressed,When God into the hands of their delivererPuts invincible mightTo quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor,The brute and boisterous force of violent men,Hardy and industrious to supportTyrannic power, but raging to pursueThe righteous and all such as honour truth!He all their ammunitionAnd feats of war defeats,With plain heroic magnitude of mindAnd celestial vigour armed;Their armouries and magazines contemns,Renders them useless, whileWith wingèd expeditionSwift as the lightning glance he executesHis errand on the wicked, who, surprised,Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.
Milton.
My dear and only love, I prayThat little world of theeBe governed by no other swayBut purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part,Which virtuous souls abhor,And hold a synod in thy heart,I'll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone:My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,Who dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.
But, if thou wilt prove faithful thenAnd constant of thy word,I'll make thee glorious by my pen,And famous by my sword;I'll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I'll crown and deck thee all with baysAnd love thee more and more.
Montrose.
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mindTo war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field,And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you too shall adore:I could not love thee, Dear, so muchLoved I not Honour more.
Lovelace.
When Love with unconfinèd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fettered to her eye,The Gods that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses crowned,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free,Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.
When, linnet-like confinèd, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my King;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlargèd winds that curl the floodKnow no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage:If I have freedom in my loveAnd in my soul am free,Angels alone that soar aboveEnjoy such liberty.
Lovelace.
The forward youth that would appearMust now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unusèd armour's rust,Removing from the wallThe corselet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgèd his active star;
And, like the three-forked lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide;
For 'tis all one to courage high,The emulous or enemy,And with such to incloseIs more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he went,And palaces and temples rent;And Cæsar's head at lastDid through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry Heaven's flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservèd and austere,As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of Time,And cast the kingdoms oldInto 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 hated emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war,Where his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtile fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook's narrow case,
That thence the royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the armèd bands,Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;
Nor called the gods with vulgar spiteTo vindicate his helpless right,But bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcèd power:So, when they did designThe Capitol's first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat doth both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confessedHow 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 presentsA kingdom for his first year's rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the public's skirt.So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?
As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all states not freeShall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his party-coloured mind,But from this valour sadShrink underneath the plaid;
Happy if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe 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 frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gain,A power must it maintain.
Marvell.