« AnteriorContinuar »
That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Upon St. Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay
To England to carry ; 0, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again
Such a King Harry ?
Well it thine age became,
To our hid forces;
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,
Not one was tardy ;
Our men were hardy.
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. I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know, not what, He should, or he should not ; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds, — God save the
mark ! And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ; And that it was great pity, so it was, That villanous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier.
This while our noble king,
As to o'erwhelm it;
Bruised his helmet.
Glo'ster, that duke so good,
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 ;
Still as they ran uր.
Ferrers and Fanhope.
MARMION AND DOUGLAS. Not far advanced was morning day, When Marnion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride ;
| The ponderous grate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.
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 stoor, 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,
The steed along the drawbridge flies,
St. Mary, mend my fiery mood !
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
MARMION AT FLODDEN FIELD.
(The battle was fought in September, 1513. between the forces of England and Scotland. The latter were worsted, and King Janes slain with cight thousand of his men. Lord Surrey commanded the English troops.) A MOMENT then Lord Marmion stayed, And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
Then forward moved his band,
Did all the field command.
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And – “This to me!” he said, -
To cleave the Douglas' head !
Even in thy pitch of pride,
I tell thee, thou 'rt defied !
Lord Angus, thou hast lied !'
The Douglas in his hall ? And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go ? No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no ! Up drawbridge, grooms, — what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall." Lord Marmion turnell, - well was his need !And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung;
Hence might they see the full array
And fronted north and south,
From the loud cannon-mouth;
But slow and far between. —
“You well may view the scene; Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : O, think of Marmion in thy prayer !
Thou wilt not ? - we!), - no less my care | Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. —
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,
With ten picked archers of my train ; With England if the day go hard,
To Berwick speed amain. -
When here we meet again."
Nor heed the discontented look From either squire : but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle-plain,
His way to Surrey took.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
But naught distinct they see :
Wild and disorderly.
Although against them come,
With Huntley and with Home.
Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
And sudden, as he spoke,
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
As down the hill they broke ;
At times a stifled hum,
King James did rushing come. -
And such a yell was there,
And fiends in upper air :
And triumph and despair.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Then fell that spotless banner white, | The Howard's lion fell;
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon few
Around the battle-yell.
The pennon sunk and rose ;
It wavered mid the foes.
I will not see it lost !
I gallop to the host."
The rescued banner rose, -
It sunk among the foes.
At length the freshening western blast
When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red,
Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.
Or victory and England's lost. -
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Of all my halls have nurst,
To slake my dying thirst ?"
Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone : Perchance her reason stoops or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone. —
She only said, as loud in air
Fight but to die, - "Is Wilton there?”
Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand ; His arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield, and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion !.... Young Blount his armor did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face,
Said, “By St. George, he 's gone ! That spear-wound has our master sped, And see the deep cut on his head !
Good night to Marmion.” — “Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease : He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; “ peace !"
( woman ! in our hours of case,
To the nigh streamlet ran ;
Sees but the dying man.
But in abhorrence backward drew;
Was curdling in the streamlet blue, Where shall she turn ! - behold her mark
A little fountain cell,
In a stone basin fell.
Tuho. built. this. cross. and. well.
A monk supporting Marmion's head;
To shrive the dying, bless the dead.
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring :
Tell him his squadrons up to bring: -
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave, — “ Is it the hand of Clare," he said, “Or injured Constance, bathes my head ?"
Then, as remembrance rose, — “Speak not to me of shrift or prayer !
I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !” –
“Alas !" she said, “the while, -
She - died at Holy Isle." -
As light as if he felt no wound;
Then down we went, a hundred knights, Though in the action burst the tide
All in our dark array,
And flung our armor in the ships
We spoke not as the shore grew less,
But gazed in silence back, Would spare me but a day!
Where the long billows swept away
The foam behind our track.
And aye the purple hues decayed
Upon the fading hill, Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And but one heart in all that ship
Was tranquil, cold, and still.
The good Lord Douglas paced the deck,
And O, his face was wan!
Unlike the flush it used to wear
When in the battle-van. -
“Come hither, come hither, my trusty knight, Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Sir Simon of the Lee ; Ever, he said, that, close and near,
! There is a freit lies near my soul A lady's voice was in his ear,
I fain would tell to thee. And that the priest he could not hear,
“Thou know'st the words King Robert spoke For that she ever sung,
Upon his dying day: “In the lost battle, borne down by the flying
How he bade take his noble heart Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the
And carry it far away ; dying!” So the notes rung :
“And lay it in the holy soil “Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand,
Where once the Saviour trod, Shake not the dying sinner's sand! —
Since he might not bear the blessed Cross, 0, look, my son, upon yon sign
Nor strike one blow for God.
“Last night as in my bed I lay, By many a death-bed I have been,
I dreamed a dreary dream :And many a sinner's parting seen,
Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand
In the moonlight's quivering beam.
“ His robe was of the azure dye, And-STANLEY! was the cry :
Snow-white his scattered hairs, A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And even such a cross he bore
As good St. Andrew bears.
“Why go ye forth, Lord James,' he said, And shouted “Victory!
. With spear and belted brand ? Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on!” Why do you take its dearest pledge Were the last words of Marmion.
From this our Scottish land ?
««• The sultry breeze of Galilee
Creeps through its groves of palm,
The olives on the Holy Mount
It was upon an April morn,
While yet the frost lay hoar,
Sound by the rocky shore.
""But 't is not there that Scotland's heart
Shall rest by God's decree,
To rise from earth and sea !