By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne;
His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
(So should desert in arms be crowned);
The lovely Thais by his side
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair!
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove
Who left his blissful seats above,
Such is the power of mighty love!
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode
When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
A present deity! they shout around:
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god;
Affects to nod
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
Flushed with a purple grace
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Soothed with the sound the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again,
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse
Soft pity to infuse:
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of Chance below
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sang, is toil and trouble,
Honour but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So love was crowned, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again:
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again:
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head;
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain:
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew!
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy:
And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen fired another Troy!
Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother-wit and arts unknown before
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
_Dryden._
XXIV
THE QUIET LIFE
Condemned to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blast or slow decline
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend:
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting Nature called for aid,
And hovering death prepared the blow,
His vigorous remedy displayed
The power of art without the show.
In misery's darkest caverns known,
His ready help was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish poured his groan,
And lonely want retired to die.
No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gains disdained by pride:
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the eternal Master found
His single talent well employed.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
_Johnson._
XXV
CHEVY CHACE
THE HUNTING
God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all;
A woeful hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chace befall;
To drive the deer with hound and horn
Erle Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborn,
The hunting of that day.
The stout Erle of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summer's days to take,
The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and bear away.
These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
In Scotland where he lay:
Who sent Erle Percy present word,
He wold prevent his sport.
The English Erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort
With fifteen hundred bow-men bold,
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of neede
To ayme their shafts aright.
The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,
To chase the fallow deere:
On Monday they began to hunt,
Ere daylight did appeare;
And long before high noone they had
An hundred fat buckes slaine;
Then having dined, the drovyers went
To rouse the deere againe.
The bow-men mustered on the hills,
Well able to endure;
Their backsides all, with special care
That day were guarded sure.
The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
The nimble deere to take,
And with their cryes the hills and dales
An echo shrill did make.
Lord Percy to the quarry went,
To view the slaughtered deere:
Quoth he, 'Erle Douglas promisËd
This day to meet me here,
But if I thought he wold not come,
No longer wold I stay.'
With that, a brave younge gentleman
Thus to the Erle did say:
'Lo, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speares
All marching in our sight;
All men of pleasant Tivydale,
Fast by the river Tweede':
'O, cease your sports,' Erle Percy said,
'And take your bowes with speede;
And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance,
For there was never champion yet,
In Scotland or in France,
That ever did on horsebacke come,
But if my hap it were,
I durst encounter man for man,
And with him break a speare.'
THE CHALLENGE
Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,
Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company,
Whose armour shone like gold.
'Show me,' said he, 'whose men ye be,
That hunt so boldly here,
That, without my consent, do chase
And kill my fallow-deere.'
The first man that did answer make,
Was noble Percy he;
Who sayd, 'We list not to declare,
Nor shew whose men we be,
Yet we will spend our dearest blood,
Thy chiefest harts to slay.'
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,
And thus in rage did say:
'Ere thus I will out-bravËd be,
One of us two shall dye:
I know thee well, an erle thou art;
Lord Percy, so am I.
But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,
And great offence to kill
Any of these our guiltlesse men,
For they have done no ill.
Let thou and I the battell trye,
And set our men aside.'
'Accurst be he,' Erle Percy said,
'By whom this is denied.'
Then stept a gallant squier forth,
Witherington was his name,
Who said, 'I wold not have it told
To Henry our king for shame,
That ere my captaine fought on foote,
And I stood looking on.
Ye be two erles,' said Witherington,
'And I a squier alone:
Ile do the best that do I may,
While I have power to stand:
While I have power to wield my sword,
Ile fight with heart and hand.'
THE BATTLE
Our English archers bent their bowes,
Their hearts were good and trew,
At the first flight of arrowes sent,
Full fourscore Scots they slew.
Yet bides Erle Douglas on the bent,
As Chieftain stout and good.
As valiant Captain, all unmoved
The shock he firmly stood.
His host he parted had in three,
As leader ware and try'd,
And soon his spearmen on their foes
Bare down on every side.
Throughout the English archery
They dealt full many a wound;
But still our valiant Englishmen
All firmly kept their ground,
And, throwing strait their bowes away,
They grasped their swords so bright,
And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
On shields and helmets light.
They closed full fast on every side,
No slackness there was found;
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.
O Christ! it was a griefe to see,
And likewise for to heare,
The cries of men lying in their gore,
And scattered here and there!
At last these two stout erles did meet,
Like captaines of great might:
Like lions wode, they laid on lode,
And made a cruel fight:
They fought untill they both did sweat
With swords of tempered steele;
Until the blood like drops of rain
They trickling downe did feele.
'Yield thee, Lord Percy,' Douglas said;
'In faith I will thee bringe,
Where thou shalt high advancËd be
By James our Scottish king:
Thy ransome I will freely give,
And this report of thee,
Thou art the most courageous knight,
That ever I did see.'
'No, Douglas,' quoth Erle Percy then,
'Thy proffer I do scorne;
I will not yield to any Scot,
That ever yet was borne.'
With that, there came an arrow keene
Out of an English bow,
Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
A deep and deadly blow:
Who never spake more words than these,
'Fight on, my merry men all;
For why, my life is at an end;
Lord Percy sees my fall.'
Then leaving life, Erle Percy tooke
The dead man by the hand;
And said, 'Erle Douglas, for thy life
Wold I had lost my land!
O Christ! my very heart doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake,
For sure, a more redoubted knight
Mischance could never take.'
A knight amongst the Scots there was,
Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percye.
Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called
Who, with a speare most bright,
Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight,
And past the English archers all,
Without or dread or feare,
And through Erle Percy's body then
He thrust his hateful speare.
With such a vehement force and might
He did his body gore,
The staff ran through the other side
A large cloth-yard, and more.
So thus did both these nobles dye,
Whose courage none could staine!
An English archer then perceived
The noble Erle was slaine:
He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long
Up to the head drew he;
Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye
So right the shaft he set,
The grey goose-winge that was thereon
In his heart's bloode was wet.
This fight did last from breake of day
Till setting of the sun;
For when they rung the evening-bell,
The battle scarce was done.
THE SLAIN
With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James, that bold barÚn;
And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,
Whose prowesse did surmount.
For Witherington needs must I wayle,
As one in doleful dumpes;
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumpes.
And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine
Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field
One foote would never flee;
Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
His sister's sonne was he;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,
Yet saved he could not be;
And the Lord Maxwell in like case
Did with Erle Douglas dye:
Of twenty hundred Scottish speares,
Scarce fifty-five did flye.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three:
The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
Under the greene woode tree.
Next day did many widdowes come,
Their husbands to bewayle;
They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
But all wold not prevayle;
Their bodyes, bathed in purple gore,
They bore with them away;
They kist them dead a thousand times,
Ere they were clad in clay.
THE TIDINGS
The newes was brought to Eddenborrow,
Where Scotland's king did raigne,
That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine:
'O heavy newes,' King James did say,
'Scotland may witnesse be,
I have not any captaine more
Of such account as he.'
Like tydings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
'Now God be with him,' said our king,
'Sith it will no better be;
I trust I have, within my realme,
Five hundred as good as he:
Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take:
I'll be revengËd on them all,
For brave Erle Percy's sake.'
This vow full well the king performed
After, at Humbledowne;
In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
With lords of great renowne,
And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands dye.
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,
Made by the Erle Percye.
God save our king, and bless this land
With plentye, joy, and peace,
And grant henceforth that foule debate
'Twixt noblemen may cease!
XXVI
SIR PATRICK SPENS
The King sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine:
'O whaur will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship o' mine?'
O up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the King's right knee:
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.'
Our King has written a braid letter
And sealed it wi' his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
'To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The King's daughter to Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame.'
The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud lauchËd he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.
'O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the King of me,
To send us out at this time o' year
To sail upon the sea?
Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The King's daughter to Noroway,
'Tis we must bring her hame.'
They hoysed their sails on Monday morn
Wi' a' the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords o' Noroway
Began aloud to say:
'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's goud
And a' our Queenis fee.'
'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,
Fu' loud I hear ye lie!
For I brought as mickle white monie
As gane my men and me,
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud
Out-o'er the sea wi' me.
Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'!
Our gude ship sails the morn.'
'Now, ever alake, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.
I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And, if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm.'
They hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.
'O where will I get a gude sailor
To tak' my helm in hand,
Till I gae up to the tall topmast
To see if I can spy land?'
'O here am I, a sailor gude,
To tak' the helm in hand,
Till you gae up to the tall topmast;
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.'
He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.
'Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Anither o' the twine,
And wap them into our ship's side,
And letna the sea come in.'
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,
Anither o' the twine,
And they wapped them round that gude ship's side,
But still the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their milk-white hands;
But lang ere a' the play was ower
They wat their gowden bands.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heeled shoon;
But lang ere a' the play was played
They wat their hats aboon.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit
Wi' their fans intill their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.
Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
It's fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
XXVII
BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY
The fifteenth day of July,
With glistering spear and shield,
A famous fight in Flanders
Was foughten in the field:
The most conspicuous officers
Were English captains three,
But the bravest man in battel
Was brave Lord Willoughby.
The next was Captain Norris,
A valiant man was he:
The other, Captain Turner,
From field would never flee.
With fifteen hundred fighting men,
Alas! there were no more,
They fought with forty thousand then
Upon the bloody shore.
'Stand to it, noble pikeman,
And look you round about:
And shoot you right, you bow-men,
And we will keep them out:
You musquet and cailiver men,
Do you prove true to me,
I'll be the bravest man in fight,'
Says brave Lord Willoughby.
And then the bloody enemy
They fiercely did assail,
And fought it out most furiously,
Not doubting to prevail:
The wounded men on both sides fell
Most piteous for to see,
But nothing could the courage quell
Of brave Lord Willoughby.
For seven hours to all men's view
This fight endurËd sore,
Until our men so feeble grew
That they could fight no more;
And then upon dead horses
Full savourly they eat,
And drank the puddle water,
That could no better get.
When they had fed so freely,
They kneelËd on the ground,
And praisËd God devoutly
For the favour they had found;
And bearing up their colours,
The fight they did renew,
And cutting tow'rds the Spaniard,
Five thousand more they slew.
The sharp steel-pointed arrows
And bullets thick did fly;
Then did our valiant soldiers
Charge on most furiously:
Which made the Spaniards waver,
They thought it best to flee:
They feared the stout behaviour
Of brave Lord Willoughby.
Then quoth the Spanish general,
'Come, let us march away,
I fear we shall be spoilËd all
If that we longer stay:
For yonder comes Lord Willoughby
With courage fierce and fell,
He will not give one inch of ground
For all the devils in hell.'
And when the fearful enemy
Was quickly put to flight,
Our men pursued courageously
To rout his forces quite;
And at last they gave a shout
Which echoed through the sky:
'God, and St. George for England!'
The conquerors did cry.
This news was brought to England
With all the speed might be,
And soon our gracious Queen was told
Of this same victory.
'O! this is brave Lord Willoughby,
My love that ever won:
Of all the lords of honour
'Tis he great deeds hath done!'
To the soldiers that were maimËd,
And wounded in the fray,
The queen allowed a pension
Of fifteen pence a day,
And from all costs and charges
She quit and set them free:
And this she did all for the sake
Of brave Lord Willoughby.
Then courage, noble Englishmen,
And never be dismayed!
If that we be but one to ten,
We will not be afraid
To fight with foreign enemies,
And set our country free.
And thus I end the bloody bout
Of brave Lord Willoughby.
XXVIII
HUGHIE THE GR∆ME
Good Lord Scroope to the hills is gane,
Hunting of the fallow deer;
And he has grippit Hughie the GrÊme
For stealing of the Bishop's mare.
'Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be!
Here hangs a broadsword by my side;
And if that thou canst conquer me,
The matter it may soon be tried.'
'I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief;
Although thy name be Hughie the GrÊme,
I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds,
If God but grant me life and time.'
But as they were dealing their blows so free,
And both so bloody at the time,
Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall,
All for to take bold Hughie the GrÊme.
O then they grippit Hughie the GrÊme,
And brought him up through Carlisle town:
The lads and lasses stood on the walls,
Crying, 'Hughie the GrÊme, thou'se ne'er gae down!'
'O loose my right hand free,' he says,
'And gie me my sword o' the metal sae fine,
He's no in Carlisle town this day
Daur tell the tale to Hughie the GrÊme.'
Up then and spake the brave Whitefoord,
As he sat by the Bishop's knee,
'Twenty white owsen, my gude lord,
If ye'll grant Hughie the GrÊme to me.'
'O haud your tongue,' the Bishop says,
'And wi' your pleading let me be;
For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat,
They suld be hangit a' for me.'
Up then and spake the fair Whitefoord,
As she sat by the Bishop's knee,
'A peck o' white pennies, my good lord,
If ye'll grant Hughie the GrÊme to me.'
'O haud your tongue now, lady fair,
Forsooth, and so it sall na be;
Were he but the one Graham of the name,
He suld be hangit high for me.'
They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe,
He lookËd to the gallows tree,
Yet never colour left his cheek,
Nor ever did he blink his e'e.
He lookËd over his left shoulder
To try whatever he could see,
And he was aware of his auld father,
Tearing his hair most piteouslie.
'O haud your tongue, my father dear,
And see that ye dinna weep for me!
For they may ravish me o' my life,
But they canna banish me fro' Heaven hie.
And ye may gie my brither John
My sword that's bent in the middle clear,
And let him come at twelve o'clock,
And see me pay the Bishop's mare.
And ye may gie my brither James
My sword that's bent in the middle brown,
And bid him come at four o'clock,
And see his brither Hugh cut down.
And ye may tell my kith and kin
I never did disgrace their blood;
And when they meet the Bishop's cloak,
To mak' it shorter by the hood.'
XXIX
KINMONT WILLIE
THE CAPTURE
O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?
O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?
How they hae ta'en bold Kinmont Willie,
On Haribee to hang him up?
Had Willie had but twenty men,
But twenty men as stout as he,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,
Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,
They tied his hands behind his back;
They guarded him fivesome on each side,
And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,
And also thro' the Carlisle sands;
They brought him on to Carlisle castle
To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.
'My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,
And wha will dare this deed avow?
Or answer by the Border law?
Or answer to the bold Buccleuch?'
'Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!
There's never a Scot shall set thee free:
Before ye cross my castle yett,
I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.'
'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie:
'By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,' he said,
'I never yet lodged in a hostelrie
But I paid my lawing before I gaed.'
THE KEEPER'S WRATH
Now word is gane to the bold Keeper,
In Branksome Ha' where that he lay,
That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,
Between the hours of night and day.
He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,
He garred the red wine spring on hie:
'Now a curse upon my head,' he said,
'But avengËd of Lord Scroope I'll be!
O is my basnet a widow's curch?
Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?
Or my arm a lady's lily hand,
That an English lord should lightly me!
And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,
Against the truce of Border tide?
And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch
Is keeper here on the Scottish side?
And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,
Withouten either dread or fear?
And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch
Can back a steed or shake a spear?
O were there war between the lands,
As well I wot that there is none,
I would slight Carlisle castle high,
Though it were builded of marble stone.
I would set that castle in a lowe,
And slocken it with English blood!
There's never a man in Cumberland
Should ken where Carlisle castle stood.
But since nae war's between the lands,
And there is peace, and peace should be,
I'll neither harm English lad or lass,
And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!'
THE MARCH
He has called him forty Marchmen bold,
I trow they were of his ain name,
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, called
The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.