Lyra Heroica | Page 7

his royalty, and his brave fleet?With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning:?Play with your fancies, and in them behold?Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;?Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give?To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,?Borne with the invisible and creeping wind?Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea?Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think?You stand upon the rivage and behold?A 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 enriched?With one appearing hair, that will not follow?These 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 him?Katharine his daughter, and with her to dowry?Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms.?The offer likes not: and the nimble gunner?With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,?And down goes all before them!
THE EVE
Now entertain conjecture of a time?When creeping murmur and the poring dark?Fills the wide vessel of the universe.?From camp to camp through the foul womb of night?The hum of either army stilly sounds,?That the fixed sentinels almost receive?The secret whispers of each other's watch:?Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames?Each battle sees the other's umbered face;?Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs?Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents?The 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 French?Do the low-rated English play at dice,?And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night?Who like a foul and ugly witch doth limp?So tediously away. The poor condemn��d English,?Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires?Sit patiently and inly ruminate?The morning's danger, and their gesture sad,?Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,?Presenteth them unto the gazing moon?So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold?The royal captain of this ruined band?Walking 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 note?How dread an army hath enrounded him;?Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour?Unto the weary and all-watch��d night,?But freshly looks and over-bears attaint?With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty,?That every wretch, pining and pale before,?Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.?A largess universal like the sun?His 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 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 amaz��d.?Yet have we well begun,?Battles so bravely won?Have ever to the sun
By fame been rais��d.
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