It has already been observed in the Introduction that this grand lyric
gave the model for Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade." This latter
poem appears along with "Maud," and another piece in the same slender
volume contains unequivocal proof of the Laureate's acquaintance with
Drayton. In the powerful poem entitled "Will" occur the lines--
"Sown in a wrinkle of the _monstrous_ hill,
The city sparkles like a grain of salt."
In a passage of Song IX. of the "Polyolbion," excerpted by Mr. Bullen,
Drayton says--
"The mightie Giant-heape so less and lesser still
Appeareth to the eye, untill the _monstrous_ hill
At length shewes like a cloud; and further being cast,
Is out of kenning quite."
The identity of epithet might possibly be accidental, but the
resemblance extends to the entire passage.
A singularly beautiful stanza from Drayton's "Barons' Warres," also in
Mr. Bullen's selection, must have been unconsciously present to
Shelley's mind when he wrote in "The Witch of Atlas"--
"While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece
Of sandal wood, rare gems, and cinnamon.
Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is;
Each flame of it is as a precious stone
Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this
Belongs to each and all who gaze thereon."
Drayton writes:
"The Fire of precious Wood, the Light Perfume
Which left a sweetnesse on each thing it shone,
As every thing did to it selfe assume
The Sent from them and made the same their owne
So that the painted Flowres within the Roome
Were sweet, as if they naturally had growne;
The Light gave Colours, which upon them fell,
And to the Colours the Perfume gave smell."
A still stronger proof of the extent to which Shelley had unconsciously
imbibed the spirit of Drayton is afforded by a comparison of the noble
speech of Fame in "The tragicall legend of Robert Duke of Normandie"
(Bullen, pp. 25, 27) with Shelley's still finer "Hymn of Apollo." There
is hardly any instance of direct verbal resemblance; but the metre, the
strain of sentiment, the oratorical pose, the mental and moral attitude
of the two poems are so much alike as to justify the assertion that the
younger owes its form and much of its spirit to the older.
The following is the Roxburghe version of the ballad of the Dauphin's
present of tennis-balls, mentioned at p. 106:--
KING HENRY V. HIS CONQUEST OF FRANCE,
In Revenge for the Affront Offered by the French King;
In Sending Him (Instead of the Tribute)
A Ton of Tennis-Balls.
As our King lay musing on his bed,
He bethought himself upon a time,
Of a tribute that was due from France,
Had not been paid for so long a time.
Fal, lal, etc.
He called for his lovely page,
His lovely page then called he;
Saying, You must go to the King of France,
To the King of France, sir, ride speedily.
O then went away this lovely page,
This lovely page then away went he;
Low he came to the King of France,
And then fell down on his bended knee.
My master greets you, worthy sir,
Ten ton of Gold that is due to he,
That you will send his tribute home,
Or in French land you soon him will see.
Fal, lal, etc.
Your master's young and of tender years,
Not fit to come into my degree,
And I will send him three Tennis-Balls
That with them he may learn to play.
O then returned this lovely page,
This lovely page then returned he,
And when he came to our gracious King,
Low he fell down on his bended knee.
[A line cut off.]
What is the news you have brought to me?
I have brought such news from the King of France
That he and you will ne'er agree.
He says, You're young and of tender years,
Not fit to come to his degree;
And he will send you three Tennis-Balls
That with them you may learn to play.
Recruit me Cheshire and Lancashire,
And Derby Hills that are so free;
No marry'd man, or widow's son,
For no widow's curse shall go with me.
They recruited Cheshire and Lancashire,
And Derby Hills that are so free;
No marry'd man, nor no widow's son,
Yet there was a jovial bold company.
O then we march'd into the French land
With drums and trumpets so merrily;
And then bespoke the King of France,
Lo yonder comes proud King Henry.
The first shot that the Frenchmen gave
They kill'd our Englishmen so free,
We kill'd ten thousand of the French,
And the rest of them they run away.
And then we marched to Paris gates,
With drums and trumpets so merrily,
O then bespoke the King of France,
The Lord have mercy on my men and me.
O I will send him his tribute home,
Ten ton of Gold that is due to he,
And the finest flower that is in all France,
To the Rose of England I will give free.