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LYRA HEROICA
A BOOK OF VERSE FOR BOYS
SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY
WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
_Sir Walter Scott._
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1920
COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
*** The selections from Walt Whitman are published by permission
of Mr. Whitman; and those from Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier,
and Bret Harte, through the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton,
Mifflin, & Co., the publishers of their works.
TO WALTER BLAIKIE
ARTIST-PRINTER
MY PART IN THIS BOOK
W. E. H.
Edinburgh, July 1891.
PREFACE
This book of verse for boys is, I believe, the first of its
kind in English. Plainly, it were labour lost to go gleaning
where so many experts have gone harvesting; and for what is
rarest and best in English Poetry the world must turn, as
heretofore, to the several 'Golden Treasuries' of Professor
Palgrave and Mr. Coventry Patmore, and to the excellent 'Poets'
Walk' of Mr. Mowbray Morris. My purpose has been to choose and
sheave a certain number of those achievements in verse which,
as expressing the simpler sentiments and the more elemental
emotions, might fitly be addressed to such boys--and men, for
that matter--as are privileged to use our noble English tongue.
To set forth, as only art can, the beauty and the joy of living,
the beauty and the blessedness of death, the glory of battle
and adventure, the nobility of devotion--to a cause, an ideal,
a passion even--the dignity of resistance, the sacred quality
of patriotism, that is my ambition here. Now, to read poetry
at all is to have an ideal anthology of one's own, and in that
possession to be incapable of content with the anthologies of all
the world besides. That is, the personal equation is ever to be
reckoned withal, and I have had my preferences, as those that
went before me had theirs. I have omitted much, as Aytoun's
'Lays,' whose absence many will resent; I have included much,
as that brilliant piece of doggerel of Frederick Marryat's,
whose presence some will regard with distress. This without
reference to enforcements due to the very nature of my work.
I have adopted the birth-day order: for that is the simplest.
And I have begun with--not Chaucer, nor Spenser, nor the ballads,
but--Shakespeare and Agincourt; for it seemed to me that a
book of heroism could have no better starting-point than that
heroic pair of names. As for the ballads, I have placed them,
after much considering, in the gap between old and new, between
classic and romantic, in English verse. The witness of Sidney and
Drayton's example notwithstanding, it is not until 1765, when
Percy publishes the 'Reliques,' that the ballad spirit begins
to be the master influence that Wordsworth confessed it was;
while as for the history of the matter, there are who hold that
'Sir Patrick Spens,' for example, is the work of Lady Wardlaw,
which to others, myself among them, is a thing preposterous
and distraught.
It remains to add that, addressing myself to boys, I have not
scrupled to edit my authors where editing seemed desirable, and
that I have broken up some of the longer pieces for convenience in
reading. Also, the help I have received while this book of 'Noble
Numbers' was in course of growth--help in the way of counsel,
suggestion, remonstrance, permission to use--has been such that
it taxes gratitude and makes complete acknowledgment impossible.
W. E. H.
CONTENTS
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) and
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631).
PAGE
I. AGINCOURT
Introit 1
Interlude 2
Harfleur 3
The Eve 4
The Battle 6
After 10
SIR HENRY WOTTON (1568-1639).
II. LORD OF HIMSELF 11
BEN JONSON (1574-1637).
III. TRUE BALM 12
IV. HONOUR IN BUD 13
JOHN FLETCHER (1576-1625).
V. THE JOY OF BATTLE 13
FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1616).
VI. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 15
ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674).
VII. GOING A-MAYING 15
VIII. TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING 18
GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1638).
IX. MEMENTO MORI 19
JAMES SHIRLEY (1594-1666).
X. THE KING OF KINGS 20
JOHN MILTON (1608-1674).
XI. LYCIDAS 21
XII. ARMS AND THE MUSE 27
XIII. TO THE LORD GENERAL 28
XIV. THE LATE MASSACRE 28
XV. ON HIS BLINDNESS 29
XVI. EYELESS AT GAZA 30
XVII. OUT OF ADVERSITY 31
JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE (1612-1650).
XVIII. HEROIC LOVE 31
RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658).
XIX. GOING TO THE WARS 32
XX. FROM PRISON 33
ANDREW MARVELL (1620-1678).
XXI. TWO KINGS 34
XXII. IN EXILE 39
JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701).
XXIII. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 40
SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784).
XXIV. THE QUIET LIFE 45
BALLADS
XXV. CHEVY CHASE
The Hunting 47
The Challenge 49
The Battle 51
The Slain 54
The Tidings 56
XXVI. SIR PATRICK SPENS 57
XXVII. BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY 60
XXVIII. HUGHIE THE GR∆ME 64
XXIX. KINMONT WILLIE
The Capture 66
The Keeper's Wrath 67
The March 69
The Rescue 71
XXX. THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL 73
XXXI. HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL 77
XXXII. THE TWA CORBIES 79
THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771).
XXXIII. THE BARD 80
WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800).
XXXIV. THE ROYAL GEORGE 85
XXXV. BOADICEA 86
GRAHAM OF GARTMORE (1735-1797).
XXXVI. TO HIS LADY 88
CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814).
XXXVII. CONSTANCY 89
XXXVIII. THE PERFECT SAILOR 90
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN (1750-1817).
XXXIX. THE DESERTER 91
PRINCE HOARE (1755-1834).
XL. THE ARETHUSA 92
WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1823).
XLI. THE BEAUTY OF TERROR 94
ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796).
XLII. DEFIANCE 95
XLIII. THE GOAL OF LIFE 96
XLIV. BEFORE PARTING 97
XLV. DEVOTION 98
XLVI. TRUE UNTIL DEATH 99
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850).
XLVII. VENICE 100
XLVIII. DESTINY 101
XLIX. THE MOTHER LAND 101
L. IDEAL 102
LI. TO DUTY 103
LII. TWO VICTORIES 105
SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832).
LIII. IN MEMORIAM 107
LIV. LOCHINVAR 112
LV. FLODDEN
The March 114
The Attack 116
The Last Stand 119
LVI. THE CHASE 121
LVII. THE OUTLAW 126
LVIII. PIBROCH 129
LIX. THE OMNIPOTENT 130
LX. THE RED HARLAW 131
LXI. FAREWELL 133
LXII. BONNY DUNDEE 134
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834).
LXIII. ROMANCE 136
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864).
LXIV. SACRIFICE 138
THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844).
LXV. SOLDIER AND SAILOR 140
LXVI. 'YE MARINERS' 143
LXVII. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 144
EBENEZER ELLIOTT (1781-1846).
LXVIII. BATTLE SONG 146
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842).
LXIX. LOYALTY 147
LXX. A SEA-SONG 148
BRYANT WALLER PROCTOR (1787-1874).
LXXI. A SONG OF THE SEA 149
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824).
LXXII. SENNACHERIB 150
LXXIII. THE STORMING OF CORINTH
The Signal 151
The Assault 153
The Magazine 156
LXXIV. ALHAMA 160
LXXV. FRIENDSHIP 164
LXXVI. THE RACE WITH DEATH 165
LXXVII. THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE 167
LXXVIII. HAIL AND FAREWELL 171
CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823).
LXXIX. AFTER CORUNNA 172
FREDERICK MARRYAT (1792-1848).
LXXX. THE OLD NAVY 174
FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1825).
LXXXI. CASABIANCA 175
LXXXII. THE PILGRIM FATHERS 177
JOHN KEATS (1796-1821).
LXXXIII. TO THE ADVENTUROUS 179
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY (1800-1859).
LXXXIV. HORATIUS
The Trysting 179
The Trouble in Rome 183
The Keeping of the Bridge 189
Father Tiber 196
LXXXV. THE ARMADA 200
LXXXVI. THE LAST BUCCANEER 205
LXXXVII. A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH 206
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER (1803-1875).
LXXXVIII. THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN 207
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882).
LXXXIX. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
The Model 208
The Builders 210
In the Ship-Yard 214
The Two Bridals 217
XC. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE 223
XCI. THE CUMBERLAND 227
XCII. A DUTCH PICTURE 228
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (b. 1807).
XCIII. BARBARA FRIETCHIE 230
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (b. 1809).
XCIV. A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 232
XCV. THE HEAVY BRIGADE 239
SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (1810-1888).
XCVI. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 242
XCVII. THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR 244
ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1890).
XCVIII. HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA 248
XCIX. HERV… RIEL 248
WALT WHITMAN (b. 1819).
C. THE DYING FIREMAN 254
CI. A SEA-FIGHT 255
CII. BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! 257
CIII. TWO VETERANS 258
CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875).
CIV. THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AV»S 260
CV. A WELCOME 262
SIR HENRY YULE (1820-1889).
CVI. THE BIRKENHEAD 264
MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888).
CVII. APOLLO 265
CVIII. THE DEATH OF SOHRAB
The Duel 267
Sohrab 269
The Recognition 272
Ruksh the Horse 275
Rustum 277
Night 280
CIX. FLEE FRO' THE PRESS 282
WILLIAM CORY (b. 1823).
CX. SCHOOL FENCIBLES 284
CXI. THE TWO CAPTAINS 285
GEORGE MEREDITH (b. 1828).
CXII. THE HEAD OF BRAN 290
WILLIAM MORRIS (b. 1834).
CXIII. THE SLAYING OF THE NIBLUNGS
Hogni 293
Gunnar 297
Gudrun 301
The Sons of Giuki 304
ALFRED AUSTIN (b. 1835).
CXIV. IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? 308
SIR ALFRED LYALL (b. 1835).
CXV. THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS 311
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (b. 1837).
CXVI. THE OBLATION 316
CXVII. ENGLAND 317
CXVIII. THE JACOBITE IN EXILE 319
BRET HARTE (b. 1839).
CXIX. THE REVEILL… 322
CXX. WHAT THE BULLET SANG 323
AUSTIN DOBSON (b. 1840).
CXXI. A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA 324
ANDREW LANG (b. 1844).
CXXII. THE WHITE PACHA 325
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (b. 1850).
CXXIII. MOTHER AND SON 326
HENRY CHARLES BEECHING (b. 1859).
CXXIV. PRAYERS 328
RUDYARD KIPLING (b. 1865).
CXXV. A BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST 329
CXXVI. THE FLAG OF ENGLAND 335
NOTES 341
INDEX 359
For I trust, if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill,
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam,
That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and
till,
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, home.
_Tennyson._
LYRA HEROICA
I
AGINCOURT
INTROIT
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
Leashed in like hounds, should Famine, Sword and Fire
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraisËd spirits that have dared
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million,
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined two mighty monarchies,
Whose high uprearËd and abutting fronts
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance;
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass.
INTERLUDE
Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:
Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought
Reigns solely in the breast of every man:
They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,
Following the mirror of all Christian kings,
With wingËd heels, as English Mercuries:
For now sits Expectation in the air,
And hides a sword from hilts unto the point
With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,
Promised to Harry and his followers.
The French, advised by good intelligence
Of this most dreadful preparation,
Shake in their fear, and with pale policy
Seek to divert the English purposes.
O England! model to thy inward greatness,
Like little body with a mighty heart,
What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,
Were all thy children kind and natural!
But see thy fault: France hath in thee found out
A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills
With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,
One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,
Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,
Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,
Have for the gilt of France--O guilt indeed!--
Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France;
And by their hands this grace of kings must die,
If hell and treason hold their promises,
Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton!--
HARFLEUR
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies
In motion of no less celerity
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen
The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier
Embark 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 condemnËd 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-watchËd 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 amazËd.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raisËd.
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
BruisËd 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 wingËd 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 bruisËd 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 CÊsar 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 plains, to the woods,
To the rocks, to the floods,
They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow!
Hark how the soldiers hollow!
Hey, hey!
Brave Diocles is dead,
And all his soldiers fled;
The battle's won, and lost,
That many a life hath cost.
_Fletcher._
VI
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep beneath this heap of stones!
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands.
Here from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here is an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in,
Since the first man died for sin.
Here the bones of birth have cried,
'Though gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings.
Here's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
_Beaumont._
VII
GOING A-MAYING
Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn:
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew-bespangled herb and tree!
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you not drest,
Nay, not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth like the spring-time fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park,
Made green and trimmed with trees! see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see 't?
Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
There's not a budding boy or girl this day,
But is got up and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth ere this is come
Back and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have despatched their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green-gown has been given,
Many a kiss, both odd and even:
Many a glance too has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament:
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-Maying.
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time!
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun.
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,
Once lost can ne'er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight,
Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
_Herrick._
VIII
TO ANTHEA
WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree;
Or bid it languish quite away,
And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep
While I have eyes to see;
And, having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair
Under that cypress-tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me,
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.
_Herrick._
IX
MEMENTO MORI
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright--
The bridal of the earth and sky--
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul
Like seasoned timber never gives,
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
_Herbert._
X
THE KING OF KINGS
The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things:
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookËd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels when they kill,
But their strong nerves at last must yield:
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on their brow--
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds!
All heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
_Shirley._
XI
LYCIDAS
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And, as he passes, turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!
For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove afield, and both together heard
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
Towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to the oaten flute;
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn.
The willows and the hazel copses green
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays,
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear
When first the white-thorn blows,
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds' ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
Ay me! I fondly dream
'Had ye been there,' ... for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son
Whom universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade
Or with the tangles of NeÊra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrËd shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise,'
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood!
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the Herald of the Sea
That came in Neptune's plea.
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beakËd promontory:
They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge?'
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean Lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine,
The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay:
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
_Milton._
XII
ARMS AND THE MUSE
WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED ON THE CITY
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
If deed of honour did thee ever please,
Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er land and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
The great Emanthian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground; and the repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
_Milton._
XIII
TO THE LORD GENERAL
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crownËd Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued,
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet much remains
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war: new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
_Milton._
XIV
THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
_Milton._
XV
ON HIS BLINDNESS
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent
That murmur soon replies: 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'
_Milton._
XVI
EYELESS AT GAZA
This, this is he; softly a while;
Let us not break in upon him.
O change beyond report, thought, or belief!
See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused
With languished head unpropt,
As one past hope, abandonËd,
And by himself given over,
In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds
O'er-worn and soiled.
Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he,
That heroic, that renowned,
Irresistible Samson? whom unarmed
No strength of man or fiercest wild beast could withstand;
Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid;
Ran on embattled armies clad in iron,
And, weaponless himself,
Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery
Of brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass,
Chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mail
AdamantÈan proof: But safest he who stood aloof,
When insupportably his foot advanced,
In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools,
Spurned them to death by troops. The bold Ascalonite
Fled from his lion ramp; old warriors turned
Their plated backs under his heel,
Or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust.
_Milton._
XVII
OUT OF ADVERSITY
O how comely it is, and how reviving
To the spirits of just men long oppressed,
When God into the hands of their deliverer
Puts invincible might
To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor,
The brute and boisterous force of violent men,
Hardy and industrious to support
Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue
The righteous and all such as honour truth!
He all their ammunition
And feats of war defeats,
With plain heroic magnitude of mind
And celestial vigour armed;
Their armouries and magazines contemns,
Renders them useless, while
With wingËd expedition
Swift as the lightning glance he executes
His errand on the wicked, who, surprised,
Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.
_Milton._
XVIII
HEROIC LOVE
My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone:
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.
But, if thou wilt prove faithful then
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword;
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays
And love thee more and more.
_Montrose._
XIX
GOING TO THE WARS
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore:
I could not love thee, Dear, so much
Loved I not Honour more.
_Lovelace._
XX
FROM PRISON
When Love with unconfinËd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fettered to her eye,
The Gods that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, linnet-like confinËd, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
EnlargËd winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.
_Lovelace._
XXI
TWO KINGS
The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unusËd armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corselet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
UrgËd his active star;
And, like the three-forked lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide;
For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous or enemy,
And with such to inclose
Is more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent;
And CÊsar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry Heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reservËd and austere,
As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould.
Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain
(But those do hold or break,
As men are strong or weak),
Nature, that hated emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war,
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtile fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook's narrow case,
That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armËd bands,
Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;
Nor called the gods with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forcËd power:
So, when they did design
The Capitol's first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That doth both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confessed
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust;
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic's hand
(How fit he is to sway,
That can so well obey!),
He to the Commons' feet presents
A kingdom for his first year's rents,
And (what he may) forbears
His fame to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the public's skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year?
As CÊsar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his party-coloured mind,
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid;
Happy if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on,
And for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain,
A power must it maintain.
_Marvell._
XXII
IN EXILE
Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the Ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along
The listening winds received this song.
'What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks
That lift the deep upon their backs,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms and prelates' rage:
He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by his hand
From Lebanon he stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.
O let our voice his praise exalt
'Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!'
Thus sang they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note:
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
_Marvell._
XXIII
ALEXANDER'S FEAST