Lyra Heroica | Page 8

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 BATTLE
Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor
now to prove our chance
Longer 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 Agincourt
In happy hour,
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his
way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power:
Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to
provide
To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while
As from a nation
vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their 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 won

Have ever to the sun
By 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 remain
Or on this earth lie slain;

Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our
swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the
regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies.'
The Duke of York so dread
The 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 were
On 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 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 the 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 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 ding
As to o'erwhelm it,
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with
blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruisèd 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 Saint 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?
_Drayton._
AFTER
Now we bear the king
Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen,

Heave him away upon your wingèd thoughts
Athwart the sea. Behold,
the English beach
Pales 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 king
Seems to prepare his way: so let
him land,
And solemnly see him set on to London.
So swift a pace
hath thought that even now
You may imagine him upon Blackheath;

Where that his lords desire him to have borne
His bruisèd helmet
and his bended sword
Before 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._
II
LORD OF HIMSELF
How happy is he born or taught
Who 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 care
Of 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
understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise,
Nor rules of
state but rules of good;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend,

And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or
friend--
This man is free from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:

Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath