Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,Whoe'er he was, I warrant himUpon whose mound the single sheepBrowses and tinkles in the sun,Within the narrow vale alone.
Lie still, old Dane! This restful sceneSuits well thy centuries of sleep:The soft brown roots above thee creep,The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen,And,—vain memento of the spot,—Theturquoise-eyed forget-me-not.
Lie still! Thy mother-land herselfWould know thee not again: no moreThe Raven from the northern shoreHails the bold crew to push for pelf,Through fire and blood and slaughtered kings'Neath the black terror of his wings.
And thou,—thy very name is lost!The peasant only knows that hereBold Alfred scooped thy flinty bier,And prayed a foeman's prayer, and tostHis auburn head, and said, "One moreOf England's foes guards England's shore,"
And turned and passed to other feats,And left thee in thine iron robe,To circle with the circling globe,While Time's corrosive dewdrop eatsThe giant warrior to a crustOf earth in earth, and rust in rust.
So lie: and let the children playAnd sit like flowers upon thy graveAnd crown with flowers,—that hardly haveA briefer blooming-tide than they;—By hurrying years urged on to rest,As thou within the Mother's breast.
* * * * *
Ha! there comes he, with sweat, with blood of Romans,And dust of the fight all stained! Oh, neverSaw I Hermann so lovely!Never such fire in his eyes!
Come! I tremble for joy; hand me the EagleAnd the red dripping sword! come, breathe, and rest thee;Rest thee here in my bosom;Rest from the terrible fight!
Rest thee, while from thy brow I wipe the big drops,And the blood from thy cheek!—that cheek, how glowing!Hermann! Hermann! ThusneldaNever so loved thee before!
No, not then, when thou first in old oak shadows,With that manly brown arm didst wildly grasp me!Spell-bound I read in thy lookThat immortality then
Which thou now hast won. Tell to the forests,Great Augustus, with trembling, amidst his gods now,Drinks his nectar; for Hermann,Hermann immortal is found!
"Wherefore curl'st thou my hair? Lies not our fatherCold and silent in death? Oh, had AugustusOnly headed his army,—Heshould lie bloodier there!"
Let me lift up thy hair; 'tis sinking, Hermann:Proudly thy locks should curl above the crown now!Sigmar is with the immortals!Follow, and mourn him no more!
From the German of FREIDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.
* * * * *
Fear not, O little flock! the foeWho madly seeks your overthrow,Dread not his rage and power;What though your courage sometimes faints?His seeming triumph o'er God's saintsLasts but a little hour.
Be of good cheer; your cause belongsTo him who can avenge your wrongs,Leave it to him, our Lord.Though hidden now from all our eyes,He sees the Gideon who shall riseTo save us, and his word.
As true as God's own word is true,Not earth or hell with all their crewAgainst us shall prevail.A jest and by-word are they grown;God is with us, we are his own,Our victory cannot fail.
Amen, Lord Jesus; grant our prayer!Great Captain, now thine arm make bare;Fight for us once again!So shall the saints and martyrs raiseA mighty chorus to thy praise,World without end! Amen.
From the German of MICHAEL ALTENBURG.
* * * * *
Sword, on my left side gleaming,What means thy bright eye's beaming?It makes my spirit danceTo see thy friendly glance.Hurrah!
"A valiant rider bears me;A free-born German wears me:That makes my eye so bright;That is the sword's delight."Hurrah!
Yes, good sword, Iamfree,And love thee heartily,And clasp thee to my side,E'en as the plighted bride.Hurrah!
"And I to thee, by Heaven,My light steel life have given;When shall the knot be tied?When wilt thou take thy bride?"Hurrah!
The trumpet's solemn warningShall hail the bridal morning,When cannon-thunders wake,Then my true-love I take.Hurrah!
"O blessèd, blessèd meeting!My heart is wildly beating:Come, bridegroom, come for me;My garland waiteth thee."Hurrah!
Why in the scabbard rattle,So wild, so fierce for battle?What means this restless glow?My sword, why clatter so?Hurrah!
"Well may thy prisoner rattle;My spirit yearns for battle.Rider, 'tis war's wild glowThat makes me tremble so."Hurrah!
Stay in thy chamber near,My love; what wilt thou here?Still in thy chamber bide;Soon, soon I take my bride.Hurrah!
"Let me not longer wait:Love's garden blooms in state,With roses bloody-red,And many a bright death-bed."Hurrah!
Now, then, come forth, my bride!Come forth, thou rider's pride!Come out, my good sword, come!Forth to thy father's home!Hurrah!
"O, in the field to pranceThe glorious wedding dance!How, in the sun's bright beams,Bride-like the clear steel gleams!"Hurrah!
Then forward, valiant fighters!And forward, German riders!And when the heart grows cold,Let each his love infold.Hurrah!
Once on the left it hung,And stolen glances flung;Now clearly on your rightDoth God each fond bride plight.Hurrah!
Then let your hot lips feelThat virgin cheek of steel;One kiss,—and woe betideHim who forsakes the bride.Hurrah!
Now let the loved one sing;Now let the clear blade ring,Till the bright sparks shall fly,Heralds of victory!Hurrah!
For, hark! the trumpet's warningProclaims the marriage morning;It dawns in festal pride;Hurrah, thou Iron Bride!Hurrah!
From the German of KARL THEODOR KÖRNER.Translation of CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.
* * * * *
The weary night is o'er at last!We ride so still, we ride so fast!We ride where Death is lying.The morning wind doth coldly pass,Landlord! we'll take another glass,Ere dying.
Thou, springing grass, that art so green,Shall soon be rosy red, I ween,My blood the hue supplying!I drink the first glass, sword in hand,To him who for the FatherlandLies dying!
Now quickly comes the second draught,And that shall be to freedom quaffedWhile freedom's foes are flying!The rest, O land, our hope and faith!We'd drink to thee with latest breath,Though dying!
My darling!—ah, the glass is out!The bullets ring, the riders shout—No time for wine or sighing!There! bring my love the shattered glass—Charge! On the foe! no joys surpassSuch dying!
From the German of GEORG HERWEGH.Translation of ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.
* * * * *
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman'stears;But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand,And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land;Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.
"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,To hear my mournful story, in that pleasant vineyard ground,That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,—The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,—And one had come from Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.
"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.For my father was a soldier, and even as a childMy heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,I let them take whate'er they would,—but kept my father's sword;And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,On the cottage wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine.
"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallanttread,But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my nameTo listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine)For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine.
"There's another,—not a sister; in the happy days gone byYou'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;Too innocent for coquetry,—too fond for idle scorning,—O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviestmourning!Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen,My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),—I dreamed I stood withher, and saw the yellow sunlight shineOn the vine-clad hills of Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,—I heard, or seemed to hear,The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,The echoing chorus sounding, through the evening calm and still;And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk!And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—But we'll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine."
His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,—his grasp was childishweak,—His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak;His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead!And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked downOn the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn;Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.
* * * * *
[1800.]
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sightWhen the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steeds to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heavenFar flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
* * * * *
[1590.]
Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land ofFrance!And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,Again let raptures light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joys;For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war!Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;An as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The king has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest;And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,Down all our line, a deafening shout: God save our lord the king!"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may—For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray—Press where you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war,And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din,Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,Charge for the golden lilies—upon them with the lance!A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest.A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours: Mayenne hath turned his rein;D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain;Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed from man to man.But out spake gentle Henry—"No Frenchmen is my foe:Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white—Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.Up with it high; unfurl it wide—that all the host may knowHow God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church suchwoe.Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.
Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne—Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night;For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!
* * * * *
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone brow,Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through),You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes:"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.
* * * * *
The work is done! the spent flame burns no more,The furnace fires smoke and die,The iron flood boils over. Ope the door,And let the haughty one pass by!Roar, mighty river, rush upon your course,A bound,—and, from your dwelling past,Dash forward, like a torrent from its source,A flame from the volcano cast!To gulp your lava-waves earth's jaws extend,Your fury in one mass fling forth,—In your steel mould, O Bronze, a slave descend,An emperor return to earth!Again NAPOLEON,—'tis his form appears!Hard soldier in unending quarrel,Who cost so much of insult, blood, and tears,For only a few boughs of laurel!
For mourning France it was a day of grief,When, down from its high station flung,His mighty statue, like some shameful thief,In coils of a vile rope was hung;When we beheld at the grand column's base,And o'er a shrieking cable bowed,The stranger's strength that mighty bronze displaceTo hurrahs of a foreign crowd;When, forced by thousand arms, head-foremost thrown,The proud mass cast in monarch mouldMade sudden fall, and on the hard, cold stoneIts iron carcass sternly rolled.The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled, rank skin,Ignoble fury in his glance,The emperor's form the kennel's filth withinDrew after him, in face of France!On those within whose bosoms hearts hold reign,That hour like remorse must weighOn each French brow,—'tis the eternal stain,Which only death can wash away!I saw, where palace-walls gave shade and ease,The wagons of the foreign force;I saw them strip the bark which clothed our trees,To cast it to their hungry horse.I saw the Northman, with his savage lip,Bruising our flesh till black with gore,Our bread devour,—on our nostrils sipThe air which was our own before!
In the abasement and the pain,—the weightOf outrages no words make known,—I charged one only being with my hate:Be thou accursed, Napoleon!O lank-haired Corsican, your France was fair,In the full sun of Messidor!She was a tameless and a rebel mare,Nor steel bit nor gold rein she bore;Wild steed with rustic flank;—yet, while she trod,—Reeking with blood of royalty,But proud with strong foot striking the old sod,At last, and for the first time, free,—Never a hand, her virgin form passed o'er,Left blemish nor affront essayed;And never her broad sides the saddle bore,Nor harness by the stranger made.A noble vagrant,—with coat smooth and bright,And nostril red, and action proud,—As high she reared, she did the world affrightWith neighings which rang long and loud.You came; her mighty loins, her paces scanned,Pliant and eager for the track;Hot Centaur, twisting in her mane your hand,You sprang all booted to her back.Then, as she loved the war's exciting sound,The smell of powder and the drum,You gave her Earth for exercising ground,Bade Battles as her pastimes come!Then, no repose for her,—no nights, no sleep!The air and toil for evermore!And human forms like unto sand crushed deep,And blood which rose her chest before!Through fifteen years her hard hoofs' rapid courseSo ground the generations,And she passed smoking in her speed and forceOver the breast of nations;Till,—tired in ne'er earned goal to place vain trust,To tread a path ne'er left behind,To knead the universe and like a dustTo uplift scattered human kind,—Feebly and worn, and gasping as she trode,Stumbling each step of her career,She craved for rest the Corsican who rode.But, torturer! you would not hear;You pressed her harder with your nervous thigh,You tightened more the goading bit,Choked in her foaming mouth her frantic cry,And brake her teeth in fury-fit.She rose,—but the strife came. From farther fallSaved not the curb she could not know,—She went down, pillowed on the cannon-ball,And thou wert broken by the blow!
Now born again, from depths where thou wert hurled,A radiant eagle dost thou rise;Winging thy flight again to rule the world,Thine image reascends the skies.No longer now the robber of a crown,—The insolent usurper,—he,With cushions of a throne, unpitying, downWho pressed the throat of Liberty,—Old slave of the Alliance, sad and lone,Who died upon a sombre rock,And France's image until death dragged onFor chain, beneath the stranger's stroke,—NAPOLEON stands, unsullied by a stain:Thanks to the flatterer's tuneful raceThe lying poets who ring praises vain,Has Cæsar 'mong the gods found place!His image to the city-walls gives light;His name has made the city's hum,—Still sounded ceaselessly, as through the fightIt echoed farther than the drum.From the high suburbs, where the people crowd,Doth Paris, an old pilgrim now,Each day descend to greet the pillar proud,And humble there his monarch brow;—The arms encumbered with a mortal wreath,With flowers for that bronze's pall,(No mothers look on, as they pass beneath,—It grew beneath their tears so tall!)—In working-vest, in drunkenness of soul,Unto the fife's and trumpet's tone,Doth joyous Paris dance the CarmagnoleAround the great Napoleon.
Thus, Gentle Monarchs, pass unnoted on!Mild Pastors of Mankind, away!Sages, depart, as common brows have gone,Devoid of the immortal ray!For vainly you make light the people's chain;And vainly, like a calm flock, comeOn your own footsteps, without sweat or pain,The people,—treading towards their tomb.Soon as your star doth to its setting glide,And its last lustre shall be givenBy your quenched name,—upon the popular tideScarce a faint furrow shall be riven.Pass, pass ye on! For you no statue high!Your names shall vanish from the horde:Their memory is for those who lead to dieBeneath the cannon and the sword;Their love, for him who on the humid fieldBy thousands lays to rot their bones;For him, who bids them pyramids to build,—And bear upon their backs the stones!
From the French of AUGUSTE BARBIER.
* * * * *
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.There without baked, rost, boyl'd, it is no cheere;Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here.There we complain of one wan roasted chick;Here meat worse cookt ne're makes us sick.At home in silken sparrers, beds of Down,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 Roses;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 shower of bullets.Lo, then how greatly their opinions erre,That think there is no great delight in warre;But yet for this, sweet warre, He be thy debtor,I shall forever love my home the better.
* * * * *
Dark fell the night, the watch was set,The host was idly spread,The Danes around their watchfires met,Caroused, and fiercely fed.
The chiefs beneath a tent of leavesAnd Guthrum, king of all,Devoured the flesh of England's beeves,And laughed at England's fall.Each warrior proud, each Danish earl,In mail of wolf-skin clad,Their bracelets white with plundered pearl,Their eyes with triumph mad.
From Humber-land to Severn-land,And on to Tamar stream,Where Thames makes green the towery strand,Where Medway's waters gleam,—With hands of steel and mouths of flameThey raged the kingdom through;And where the Norseman sickle came,No crop but hunger grew.
They loaded many an English horseWith wealth of cities fair;They dragged from many a father's corseThe daughter by her hair.And English slaves, and gems and gold,Were gathered round the feast;Till midnight in their woodland hold,O, never that riot ceased.
In stalked a warrior tall and rudeBefore the strong sea-kings;"Ye Lords and Earls of Odin's brood,Without a harper sings.He seems a simple man and poor,But well he sounds the lay;And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure,Will ye the song repay."
In trod the bard with keen cold look,And glanced along the board,That with the shout and war-cry shookOf many a Danish lord.But thirty brows, inflamed and stern,Soon bent on him their gaze,While calm he gazed, as if to learnWho chief deserved his praise.
Loud Guthrum spake,—"Nay, gaze not thus,Thou Harper weak and poor!By Thor! who bandy looks with usMust worse than looks endure.Sing high the praise of Denmark's host,High praise each dauntless Earl;The brave who stun this English coastWith war's unceasing whirl."
The Harper slowly bent his head,And touched aloud the string;Then raised his face, and boldly said,"Hear thou my lay, O King!High praise from every mouth of manTo all who boldly strive,Who fall where first the fight began,And ne'er go back alive.
"Fill high your cups, and swell the shout,At famous Regnar's name!Who sank his host in bloody rout,When he to Humber came.His men were chased, his sons were slain,And he was left alone.They bound him in an iron chainUpon a dungeon stone.
"With iron links they bound him fast;With snakes they filled the hole,That made his flesh their long repast,And bit into his soul.
"Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes?Why champ your teeth in pain?Still lives the song though Regnar dies!Fill high your cups again!Ye too, perchance, O Norseman lords!Who fought and swayed so long,Shall soon but live in minstrel words,And owe your names to song.
"This land has graves by thousands moreThan that where Regnar lies.When conquests fade, and rule is o'er,The sod must close your eyes.How soon, who knows? Not chief, nor bard;And yet to me 'tis given,To see your foreheads deeply scarred,And guess the doom of Heaven.
"I may not read or when or how,But, Earls and Kings, be sureI see a blade o'er every brow,Where pride now sits secure.Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain!When chief and monarch fall,Their names in song shall breathe again,And thrill the feastful hall."
Grim sat the chiefs; one heaved a groan,And one grew pale with dread,His iron mace was grasped by one,By one his wine was shed.And Guthrum cried, "Nay, bard, no moreWe hear thy boding lay;Make drunk the song with spoil and gore!Light up the joyous fray!""Quick throbs my brain,"—so burst the song,—To hear the strife once more.The mace, the axe, they rest too long;Earth cries, My thirst is sore.More blithely twang the strings of bowsThan strings of harps in glee;Red wounds are lovelier than the roseOr rosy lips to me.
"O, fairer than a field of flowers,When flowers in England grew,Would be the battle's marshalled powers,The plain of carnage new.With all its death before my soulThe vision rises fair;Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl!I would that I were there!"
Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eyeRolled fiercely round the throng;It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh,Whose shock aroused the song.A golden cup King Guthrum gaveTo him who strongly played;And said, "I won it from the slaveWho once o'er England swayed."
King Guthrum cried, "'Twas Alfred's own;Thy song befits the brave:The King who cannot guard his throneNor wine nor song shall have."The minstrel took the goblet bright,And said, "I drink the wineTo him who owns by justest rightThe cup thou bid'st be mine.To him, your Lord, O shout ye all!His meed be deathless praise!The King who dares not nobly fall,Dies basely all his days."
"The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said,"With sweetness fills mine ear;For Alfred swift before me fled,And left me monarch here.The royal coward never daredBeneath mine eye to stand.O, would that now this feast he shared,And saw me rule his land!"
Then stern the minstrel rose, and spake,And gazed upon the King,—"Not now the golden cup I take,Nor more to thee I sing.Another day, a happier hour,Shall bring me here again:The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power,Till I demand it then."
The Harper turned and left the shed,Nor bent to Guthrum's crown;And one who marked his visage saidIt wore a ghastly frown.The Danes ne'er saw that Harper more,For soon as morning rose,Upon their camp King Alfred bore,And slew ten thousand foes.
* * * * *
[A modernized form of the old ballad of the "Hunting o' the Cheviot." Some circumstances of the battle of Olter-bourne (A.D. 1388) are woven into the ballad, and the affairs of the two events are confounded. The ballad preserved in the "Percy Reliques" is probably as old as 1574. The one following is not later than the time of Charles II]
God prosper long our noble king,Our lives and safeties all;A woful hunting once there didIn Chevy-Chace befall.
To drive the deer with hound and hornEarl Piercy took his way;The child may rue that is unbornThe hunting of that day.
The stout Earl of NorthumberlandA vow to God did make,His pleasure in the Scottish woodsThree summer days to take,—
The chiefest harts in Chevy-ChaceTo kill and bear away.These tidings to Earl Douglas came,In Scotland where he lay;
Who sent Earl Piercy present wordHe would prevent his sport.The English earl, not fearing that,Did to the woods resort.
With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,All chosen men of might,Who knew full well in time of needTo aim their shafts aright.
The gallant greyhounds swiftly ranTo chase the fallow deer;On Monday they began to hunt,When daylight did appear;
And long before high noon they hadA hundred fat bucks slain;Then, having dined, the drovers wentTo rouse the deer again.
The bowmen mustered on the hills,Well able to endure;And all their rear, with special care,That day was guarded sure.
The hounds ran swiftly through the woodsThe nimble deer to take,That with their cries the hills and dalesAn echo shrill did make.
Lord Piercy to the quarry went,To view the slaughtered deer;Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promisedThis day to meet me here;
"But if I thought he would not come,No longer would I stay;"With that a brave young gentlemanThus to the earl did say:—
"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come,—His men in armor bright;Full twenty hundred Scottish spearsAll marching in our sight;
"All men of pleasant Tividale,Fast by the river Tweed;""Then cease your sports," Earl Piercy said,"And take your bows with speed;
"And now with me, my countrymen,Your courage forth advance;For never was there champion yet,In Scotland or in France,
"That ever did on horseback come,But if my hap it were,I durst encounter man for man,With him to break a spear."
Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed,Most like a baron bold,Rode foremost of his company,Whose armor shone like gold.
"Show me," said he, "whose men you be,That hunt so boldly here,That, without my consent, do chaseAnd kill my fallow-deer."
The first man that did answer make,Was noble Piercy, he—Who said, "We list not to declare,Nor show whose men we be:
"Yet will we spend our dearest bloodThy chiefest harts to slay."Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,And thus in rage did say:—
"Ere thus I will out-braved be,One of us two shall die;I know thee well, an earl thou art,—Lord Piercy, so am I.
"But trust me, Piercy, pity it were,And great offence, to killAny of these our guiltless men,For they have done no ill.
"Let you and me the battle try,And set our men aside.""Accursed be he," Earl Piercy said,"By whom this is denied."
Then stepped a gallant squire forth,Witherington was his name,Who said, "I would not have it toldTo Henry, our king, for shame,
"That e'er my captain fought on foot,And I stood looking on.You two be earls," said Witherington,"And I a squire alone;
"I'll do the best that do I may,While I have power to stand;While I have power to wield my swordI'll fight with heart and hand."
Our English archers bent their bows,—Their hearts were good and true;At the first flight of arrows sent,Full fourscore Scots they slew.
Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent,As chieftain stout and good;As valiant captain, all unmoved,The shock he firmly stood.
His host he parted had in three,As leader ware and tried;And soon his spearmen on their foesBore down on every side.
Throughout the English archeryThey dealt full many a wound;But still our valiant EnglishmenAll firmly kept their ground.
And throwing straight their bows away,They grasped their swords so bright;And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,On shields and helmets light.
They closed full fast on every side,—No slackness there was found;And many a gallant gentlemanLay gasping on the ground.
In truth, it was a grief to seeHow each one chose his spear,And how the blood out of their breastsDid gush like water clear.
At last these two stout earls did meet;Like captains of great might,Like lions wode, they laid on lode,And made a cruel fight.
They fought until they both did sweat,With swords of tempered steel,Until the blood, like drops of rain,They trickling down did feel.
"Yield thee, Lord Piercy," Douglas said,"In faith I will thee bringWhere thou shalt high advanced beBy James, our Scottish king.
"Thy ransom I will freely give,And this report of thee,—Thou art the most courageous knightThat ever I did see."
"No, Douglas," saith Earl Piercy then,"Thy proffer I do scorn;I will not yield to any ScotThat ever yet was born."
With that there came an arrow keenOut of an English bow,Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,—A deep and deadly blow;
Who never spake more words than these:"Fight on, my merry men all;For why, my life is at an end;Lord Piercy sees my fall."
Then leaving life, Earl Piercy tookThe dead man by the hand;And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy lifeWould I had lost my land.
"In truth, my very heart doth bleedWith sorrow for thy sake;For sure a more redoubted knightMischance did never take."
A knight amongst the Scots there wasWho saw Earl Douglas die,Who straight in wrath did vow avengeUpon the Earl Piercy.
Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called,Who, with a spear full bright,Well mounted on a gallant steed,Ran fiercely through the fight;
And past the English archers all,Without a dread or fear;And through Earl Piercy's body thenHe thrust his hateful spear.
With such vehement force and mightHe did his body gore,The staff ran through the other sideA large cloth-yard and more.
So thus did both these nobles die,Whose courage none could stain.An English archer then perceivedThe noble earl was slain.
He had a bow bent in his hand,Made of a trusty tree;An arrow of a cloth-yard longTo the hard head haled he.
Against Sir Hugh MountgomerySo right the shaft he set,The gray goose wing that was thereonIn his heart's blood was wet.
This fight did last from break of dayTill setting of the sun;For when they rung the evening-bellThe battle scarce was done.
With stout Earl Piercy there were slainSir John of Egerton,Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,Sir James, that bold baron.
And with Sir George and stout Sir James,Both knights of good account.Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain,Whose prowess did surmount.
For Witherington my heart is woeThat ever he slain should be,For when his legs were hewn in two,He knelt and fought on his knee.
And with Earl Douglas there was slainSir Hugh Mountgomery,Sir Charles Murray, that from the fieldOne foot would never flee;
Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,—His sister's son was he;Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,But saved he could not be.
And the Lord Maxwell in like caseDid with Earl Douglas die:Of twenty hundred Scottish spears,Scarce fifty-five did fly.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,Went home but fifty-three;The rest in Chevy-Chace were slain,Under the greenwood tree.
Next day did many widows come,Their husbands to bewail;They washed their wounds in brinish tears.But all would not prevail.
Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,They bore with them away;They kissed them dead a thousand times,Ere they were clad in clay.
The news was brought to Edinburgh,Where Scotland's king did reign,That brave Earl Douglas suddenlyWas with an arrow slain:
"O heavy news," King James did say;"Scotland can witness beI have not any captain moreOf such account as he."
Like tidings to King Henry cameWithin as short a, space,That Piercy of NorthumberlandWas slain in Chevy-Chace:
"Now God be with him," said our King,"Since 'twill no better be;I trust I have within my realmFive hundred as good as he:
"Yet shall not Scots or Scotland sayBut I will vengeance take;I'll be revenged on them allFor brave Earl Piercy's sake."
This vow full well the king performedAfter at Humbledown;In one day fifty knights were slainWith lords of high renown;
And of the rest, of small account,Did many hundreds die:Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,Made by the Earl Piercy.
God save the king, and bless this land,With plenty, joy, and peace;And grant, henceforth, that foul debate'Twixt noblemen may cease.
* * * * *
[A confused echo of the Scotch expedition which should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland, about 1285.]
The king sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine,"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,To sail this new ship of mine!"
O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee,—"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,That ever sailed the sea."
Our king has written a braid letter,And sealed it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame."
The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud loud laughèd he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his e'e.
"O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o' me,To send us out, at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?
"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame."
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in Noroway,Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway, but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say,—
"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!Fu' loud I hear ye lie.
"For I brought as much white monic,As gane[A] my men and me,And I brought a half-fou[B] o' gude red goud,Out o'er the sea wi' me.
"Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!
"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;And, if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm."
They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.
"O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall top-mast,To see if I can spy land?"
"O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall top-mast;But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely are,When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.
"Gae, fetch a web o' silken claith,Another o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And let na the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And they wapped them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.
O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeled shoon!But lang or a' the play was played,They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather-bed,That flattered on the faem;And mony was the gude lord's son,That never mair cam hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake of their true loves;For them they'll see na mair.
O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see na mair.
O forty miles off Aberdeen,'Tis fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
[Footnote A: Suffice.]
[Footnote B: The eighth part of a peck.]
* * * * *
[This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries. The Scotch point out Blackhouse, on the wild Douglas Burn, a tributary of the Yarrow, as the scene of the tragedy.]
"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says,"And put on your armor so bright;Let it never be said, that a daughter of thineWas married to a lord under night.
"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,And put on your armor so bright,And take better care of your youngest sister,For your eldest's awa the last night."
He's mounted her on a milk-white steed,And himself on a dapple grey,With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,And lightly they rade away.
Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,To see what he could see,And there he spyed her seven brethren bold,Come riding over the lea.
"Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said,"And hold my steed in your hand,Until that against your seven brothers bold,And your father, I mak a stand."
She held his steed in her milk-white hand,And never shed one tear,Until that she saw her seven brethren fa',And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.
"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said,"For your strokes they are wond'rous sair;True lovers I can get many a ane,But a father I can never get mair."
O she's ta'en out her handkerchief,It was o' the holland sae fine,And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,That were redder than the wine.
"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said,"O whether will ye gang or bide?""I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said,"For ye have left me no other guide."
He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,And himself on a dapple grey,With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,And slowly they baith rade away.
O they rade on, and on they rade,And a' by the light of the moon,Until they cam to yon wan water,And there they lighted down.
They lighted down to tak a drinkOf the spring that ran sae clear;And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,And sair she gan to fear.
"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says,"For I fear that you are slain!""'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak,That shines in the water sae plain."
O they rade on, and on they rade,And a' by the light of the moon,Until they cam to his mother's ha' door,And there they lighted down.
"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,"Get up, and let me in!—Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,"For this night my fair ladye I've win.
"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says,"O mak it braid and deep!And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back,And the sounder I will sleep."
Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,Lady Marg'ret lang ere day—And all true lovers that go thegither,May they have mair luck than they!
Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk,Lady Margaret in Mary's quire;Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,And out o' the knight's a brier.
And they twa met, and they twa plat,And fain they wad be near;And a' the warld might ken right weel,They were twa lovers dear.
But bye and rade the Black Douglas,And wow but he was rough!For he pulled up the bonny brier,And flang 'tin St. Mary's loch.
* * * * *