Lyra Heroica | Page 8

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
Bruis��d 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 wing��d 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 bruis��d 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 C?sar 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 all.
_Wotton._
III
TRUE BALM
High-spirited friend,?I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound;
Your faith hath found?A gentler and more agile hand to tend?The cure of that which is but corporal,?And doubtful days, which were named critical,
Have made their fairest flight?And now are out of sight.?Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind,
Wrapped in this paper lie,?Which in the taking if you misapply
You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,?Happy in that fair honour it hath gained,
Must now be reined.?True valour doth her own renown commend?In one full action; nor have you now more?To do than be a husband of that store.
Think but how dear you bought?This same which you have caught--?Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth
'Tis wisdom, and that high,?For men to use their fortune reverently,
Even in youth.
_Jonson._
IV
HONOUR IN BUD
It is not growing like a tree?In bulk doth make man better be:
A lily of a day?Is fairer far in May:?Although it fall and die that night,?It was the plant and flower of light.
_Jonson._
V
THE JOY OF BATTLE
Arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in;?Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win.?Behold from yonder hill the foe appears;?Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears!?Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring;?O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring!?The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums!
Dub, dub!
They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes:
See how the arrows fly
That darken all the sky!
Hark how the trumpets sound!
Hark how the hills rebound--
Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!
Hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in!?The battle totters; now the wounds begin:
O how they cry!
O how they die!
Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder!
See how he breaks the ranks asunder!?They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase,?And brave Polybius makes good his place:
To the