And once, when in the woods an oak, for age,
Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling.
At last they came where still, in dread array,
As though they still might speak, the trumpets lay.

Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground,

The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging, Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as round

And firm as when the rocks were first set ringing.

Fresh from their unimaginable mould

They might have seemed, save that the storms had stained them

With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrained them.

Breathless the gazers looked, nigh faint for awe, Then leaped, then laughed. What was it now they saw?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low !

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars ?What but death bemocking folly ? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow !

That with the cries they make

The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Which did the signal aim

To our hid forces;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses,

With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew;
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;

Arms were from shoulders sent ; Scalps to the teeth were rent; Down the French peasants went ; Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruiséd his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother,Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon St. Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry ;
O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,

Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.
FROM "KING HENRY IV.," PART I.

BUT I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took 't away again ;-
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:-and still he smiled and talked ;
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.

388

Beneath the royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient Earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered in an undertone,

Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : — "Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest,

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand."-
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,

To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone,
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.” -

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire,

And "This to me!" he said,

"An 't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared

To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou 'rt defied! And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth, To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall?

That breathes the voice of modern battle,

But slow and far between.

The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed: "Here, by this cross," he gently said,

"You well may view the scene; Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : O, think of Marmion in thy prayer! Thou wilt not?— well, -no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.