Poems
Nay, I will know the most remote particulars
Of this your strange petition; that, if I can,
I still may keep you here.
DAGWORTH
Here on the fields of Cressy we are settled
Till Philip springs the timorous covey again.
The wolf is hunted down by causeless fear;
The lion flees, and fear usurps his heart,
Startled, astonished at the clamorous cock;
The eagle, that doth gaze upon the sun,
Fears the small fire that plays about the fen.
If, at this moment of their idle fear,
The dog doth seize the wolf, the forester the lion,
The negro in the crevice of the rock
Doth seize the soaring eagle; undone by flight,
They tame submit: such the effect flight has
On noble souls. Now hear its opposite:
The timorous stag starts from the thicket wild,
The fearful crane springs from the splashy fen,
The shining snake glides o’er the bending grass,
The stag turns head, and bays the crying hounds;
The crane o’ertaken fighteth with the hawk;
The snake doth turn, and bite the padding foot.
And if your Majesty’s afraid of Philip,
You are more like a lion than a crane;
Therefore I beg I may return to England.
KING
Sir Thomas, now I understand your mirth,
Which often plays with wisdom for its pastime,
And brings good counsel from the breast of laughter.
I hope you’ll stay and see us fight this battle,
And reap rich harvest in the fields of Cressy;
Then go to England, tell them how we fight,
And set all hearts on fire to be with us.
Philip is plumed, and thinks we flee from him,
Else he would never dare to attack us. Now,
Now the quarry’s set! and Death doth sport
In the bright sunshine of this fatal day.
DAGWORTH
Now my heart dances, and I am as light
As the young bridegroom going to be married.
Now must I to my soldiers, get them ready,
Furbish our armours bright, new-plume our helms;
And we will sing like the young housewives busied
In the dairy. Now my feet are wing’d, but not
For flight, an please your Grace.
KING
If all my soldiers are as pleased as you,
’Twill be a gallant thing to fight or die;
Then I can never be afraid of Philip.
DAGWORTH
A raw-boned fellow t’other day passed by me;
I told him to put off his hungry looks—
He answered me, “I hunger for another battle”.
I saw a little Welshman with a fiery face;
I told him he looked like a candle half
Burned out; he answered, he was “_pig_ enough
To light another _pattle_”. Last night, beneath
The moon I walked abroad, when all had pitched
Their tents, and all were still;
I heard a blooming youth singing a song
He had composed, and at each pause he wiped
His dropping eyes. The ditty was, “If he
Returned victorious, he should wed a maiden
Fairer than snow, and rich as midsummer”.
Another wept, and wished health to his father.
I chid them both, but gave them noble hopes.
These are the minds that glory in the battle,
And leap and dance to hear the trumpet sound.
KING
Sir Thomas Dagworth, be thou near our person;
Thy heart is richer than the vales of France:
I will not part with such a man as thee.
If Philip came armed in the ribs of death,
And shook his mortal dart against my head,
Thou’dst laugh his fury into nerveless shame!
Go now, for thou art suited to the work,
Throughout the camp; inflame the timorous,
Blow up the sluggish into ardour, and
Confirm the strong with strength, the weak inspire,
And wing their brows with hope and expectation;
Then to our tent return, and meet to council. [_Exit_ DAGWORTH
CHANDOS
That man’s a hero in his closet, and more
A hero to the servants of his house
Than to the gaping world; he carries windows
In that enlargèd breast of his, that all
May see what’s done within.
PRINCE
He is a genuine Englishman, my Chandos,
And hath the spirit of Liberty within him.
Forgive my prejudice, Sir John; I think
My Englishmen the bravest people on
The face of the earth.
CHANDOS
Courage, my Lord, proceeds from self-dependence;
Teach man to think he’s a free agent,
Give but a slave his liberty, he’ll shake
Off sloth, and build himself a hut, and hedge
A spot of ground; this he’ll defend; ’tis his
By right of nature. Thus set in action,
He will still move onward to plan conveniences,
Till glory fires his breast to enlarge his castle;
While the poor slave drudges all day, in hope
To rest at night.
KING
O Liberty, how glorious art thou!
I see thee hovering o’er my army, with
Thy wide-stretched plumes; I see thee
Lead them on to battle;
I see thee blow thy golden trumpet while
Thy sons shout the strong shout of victory!
O noble Chandos, think thyself a gardener,
My son a vine, which I commit unto
Thy care. Prune all extravagant shoots, and guide
The ambitious tendrils in the path of wisdom;
Water him with thy advice, and Heaven
Rain freshening dew upon his branches! And,
O Edward, my dear son! learn to think lowly of
Thyself, as we may all each prefer other—
’Tis the best policy, and ’tis our duty.
[_Exit_ KING EDWARD
PRINCE
And may our duty, Chandos, be our pleasure.—
Now we are alone, Sir John, I will unburden
And breathe my hopes into the burning air,
Where thousand Deaths are posting up and down,
Commissioned to this fatal field of Cressy.
Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers,
And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit
Each shining helm, and string each stubborn bow,
And dance to the neighing of our steeds.
Methinks the shout begins, the battle burns;
Methinks I see them perch on English crests,
And roar the wild flame of fierce war upon
The throngèd enemy! In truth, I am too full;
It is my sin to love the noise of war.
Chandos, thou seest my weakness; strong Nature
Will bend or break us: my blood, like a springtide
Does rise so high to overflow all bounds
Of moderation; while Reason, in her
Frail bark, can see no shore or bound for vast
Ambition. Come, take the helm, my Chandos,
That my full-blown sails overset me not
In the wild tempest. Condemn my venturous youth
That plays with danger, as the innocent child,
Unthinking, plays upon the viper’s den:
I am a coward in my reason, Chandos.
CHANDOS
You are a man, my prince, and a brave man,
If I can judge of actions; but your heat
Is the effect of youth, and want of use:
Use makes the armed field and noisy war
Pass over as a summer cloud, unregarded,
Or but expected as a thing of course.
Age is contemplative; each rolling year
Brings forth fruit to the mind’s treasure-house:—
While vacant youth doth crave and seek about
Within itself, and findeth discontent,
Then, tired of thought, impatient takes the wing,
Seizes the fruits of time, attacks experience,
Roams round vast Nature’s forest, where no bounds
Are set, the swiftest may have room, the strongest
Find prey; till, tired at length, sated and tired
With the changing sameness, old variety,
We sit us down, and view our former joys
With distaste and dislike.
PRINCE
Then if we must tug for experience,
Let us not fear to beat round Nature’s wilds,
And rouse the strongest prey: then if we fall,
We fall with glory. I know the wolf
Is dangerous to fight, not good for food,
Nor is the hide a comely vestment; so
We have our battle for our pains. I know
That youth has need of age to point fit prey,
And oft the stander-by shall steal the fruit
Of th’other’s labour. This is philosophy;
These are the tricks of the world; but the pure soul
Shall mount on native wings, disdaining
Little sport, and cut a path into the heaven of glory,
Leaving a track of light for men to wonder at.
I’m glad my father does not hear me talk;
You can find friendly excuses for me, Chandos.
But do you not think, Sir John, that, if it please
Th’ Almighty to stretch out my span of life,
I shall with pleasure view a glorious action
Which my youth mastered?
CHANDOS
Considerate age, my Lord, views motives,
And not acts; when neither warbling voice
Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits
With trembling age, the voice of Conscience then,
Sweeter than music in a summer’s eve,
Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep
Sweet symphony to feathered angels, sitting
As guardians round your chair; then shall the pulse
Beat slow, and taste and touch, and sight, and sound, and smell,
That sing and dance round Reason’s fine-wrought throne,
Shall flee away, and leave them all forlorn;
Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend.
[_Exeunt_
SCENE—_In_ SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH’S _Tent_
DAGWORTH _and_ WILLIAM, _his man_
DAGWORTH
Bring hither my armour, William.
Ambition is the growth of every clime.
WILLIAM
Does it grow in England, sir?
DAGWORTH
Ay, it grows most in lands most cultivated.
WILLIAM
Then it grows most in France; the vines here
Are finer than any we have in England.
DAGWORTH
Ay, but the oaks are not.
WILLIAM
What is the tree you mentioned? I don’t think
I ever saw it.
DAGWORTH
Ambition.
WILLIAM
Is it a little creeping root that grows in ditches?
DAGWORTH
Thou dost not understand me, William.
It is a root that grows in every breast;
Ambition is the desire or passion that one man
Has to get before another, in any pursuit after glory;
But I don’t think you have any of it.
WILLIAM
Yes, I have; I have a great ambition to know everything, sir.
DAGWORTH
But, when our first ideas are wrong, what follows must all be wrong, of
course; ’tis best to know a little, and to know that little aright.
WILLIAM
Then, sir, I should be glad to know if it was not ambition that brought
over our king to France to fight for his right.
DAGWORTH
Though the knowledge of that will not profit thee much, yet I will tell
you that it _was_ ambition.
WILLIAM
Then, if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in coming with him, and in
fighting for him.
DAGWORTH
Now, William, thou dost thrust the question home; but I must tell you
that, guilt being an act of the mind, none are guilty but those whose
minds are prompted by that same ambition.
WILLIAM
Now, I always thought that a man might be guilty of doing wrong without
knowing it was wrong.
DAGWORTH
Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowest truth by instinct; while
reason runs aground, as we have run our argument. Only remember,
William, all have it in their power to know the motives of their own
actions, and ’tis a sin to act without some reason.
WILLIAM
And whoever acts without reason may do a great deal of harm without
knowing it.
DAGWORTH
Thou art an endless moralist.