Poems
WILLIAM
Now there’s a story come into my head, that I will tell your honour, if
you’ll give me leave.
DAGWORTH
No, William, save it till another time; this is no time for
story-telling. But here comes one who is as entertaining as a good
story.
_Enter_ PETER BLUNT
PETER
Yonder’s a musician going to play before the King; it’s a new song about
the French and English. And the Prince has made the minstrel a squire,
and given him I don’t know what, and I can’t tell whether he don’t
mention us all one by one; and he is to write another about all us that
are to die, that we may be remembered in Old England, for all our blood
and bones are in France; and a great deal more that we shall all hear by
and by. And I came to tell your honour, because you love to hear
war-songs.
DAGWORTH
And who is this minstrel, Peter, dost know?
PETER
Oh, ay, I forgot to tell that; he has got the same name as Sir John
Chandos that the Prince is always with—the wise man that knows us all as
well as your honour, only ain’t so good-natured.
DAGWORTH
I thank you, Peter, for your information, but not for your compliment,
which is not true. There’s as much difference between him and me as
between glittering sand and fruitful mould; or shining glass and a
wrought diamond, set in rich gold, and fitted to the finger of an
Emperor; such is that worthy Chandos.
PETER
I know your honour does not think anything of yourself, but everybody
else does.
DAGWORTH
Go, Peter, get you gone; flattery is delicious, even from the lips of a
babbler.
[_Exit_ PETER
WILLIAM
I never flatter your honour.
DAGWORTH
I don’t know that.
WILLIAM
Why, you know, sir, when we were in England, at the tournament at
Windsor, and the Earl of Warwick was tumbled over, you asked me if he
did not look well when he fell; and I said no, he looked very foolish;
and you was very angry with me for not flattering you.
DAGWORTH
You mean that I was angry with you for not flattering the Earl of
Warwick.
[_Exeunt_
SCENE—SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH’S _Tent_
SIR THOMAS DAGWORTH. _To him enter_ SIR WALTER MANNY
SIR WALTER
Sir Thomas Dagworth, I have been weeping
Over the men that are to die to-day.
DAGWORTH
Why, brave Sir Walter, you or I may fall.
SIR WALTER
I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot,
Covered with silence and forgetfulness.
Death roams in cities’ smoke, and in still night,
When men sleep in their beds, walketh about.
How many in walled cities lie and groan,
Turning themselves upon their beds,
Talking with Death, answering his hard demands!
How many walk in darkness, terrors are round
The curtains of their beds, destruction is
Ready at the door! How many sleep
In earth, covered with stones and deathy dust,
Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk
Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more!
Yet death is terrible, though borne on angels’ wings.
How terrible then is the field of Death,
Where he doth rend the vault of heaven,
And shake the gates of hell!
O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky,
Though sunshine light it, seems to me as pale
As the pale fainting man on his death-bed,
Whose face is shown by light of sickly taper.
It makes me sad and sick at very heart;
Thousands must fall to-day.
DAGWORTH
Thousands of souls must leave this prison-house,
To be exalted to those heavenly fields
Where songs of triumph, palms of victory,
Where peace and joy and love and calm content,
Sit singing in the azure clouds, and strew
Flowers of heaven’s growth over the banquet-table.
Bind ardent hope upon your feet like shoes,
Put on the robe of preparation!
The table is prepared in shining heaven,
The flowers of immortality are blown;
Let those that fight fight in good steadfastness,
And those that fall shall rise in victory.
SIR WALTER
I’ve often seen the burning field of war,
And often heard the dismal clang of arms;
But never, till this fatal day of Cressy,
Has my soul fainted with these views of death.
I seem to be in one great charnel-house,
And seem to scent the rotten carcasses;
I seem to hear the dismal yells of Death,
While the black gore drops from his horrid jaws:
Yet I not fear the monster in his pride—
But O! the souls that are to die to-day!
DAGWORTH
Stop, brave Sir Walter; let me drop a tear,
Then let the clarion of war begin;
I’ll fight and weep, ’tis in my country’s cause;
I’ll weep and shout for glorious liberty.
Grim war shall laugh and shout, decked in tears,
And blood shall flow like streams across the meadows,
That murmur down their pebbly channels, and
Spend their sweet lives to do their country service:
Then shall England’s verdure shoot, her fields shall smile,
Her ships shall sing across the foaming sea,
Her mariners shall use the flute and viol,
And rattling guns, and black and dreary war,
Shall be no more.
SIR WALTER
Well, let the trumpet sound, and the drum beat;
Let war stain the blue heavens with bloody banners;
I’ll draw my sword, nor ever sheathe it up
Till England blow the trump of victory,
Or I lie stretched upon the field of death.
[_Exeunt_
SCENE—_In the Camp_
_Several of the Warriors met at the King’s Tent with a Minstrel who
sings the following Song_:
O sons of Trojan Brutus, clothed in war,
Whose voices are the thunder of the field,
Rolling dark clouds o’er France, muffling the sun
In sickly darkness like a dim eclipse,
Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire
Burning up nations in your wrath and fury!
Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy
(Like lions roused by lightning from their dens,
Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires),
Heated with war, filled with the blood of Greeks,
With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore,
In navies black, broken with wind and tide:
They landed in firm array upon the rocks
Of Albion; they kissed the rocky shore;
“Be thou our mother and our nurse,” they said,
“Our children’s mother, and thou shalt be our grave,
The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence
Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful powers”.
Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices
Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons
Of Ocean run from rocks and caves; wild men,
Naked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks,
And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled
Thick as a forest, ready for the axe.
Our fathers move in firm array to battle;
The savage monsters rush like roaring fire;
Like as a forest roars with crackling flames,
When the red lightning, borne by furious storms,
Lights on some woody shore; the parched heavens
Rain fire into the molten raging sea.
The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore,
Spoiled of their verdure. Oh, how oft have they
Defied the storm that howled o’er their heads!
Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view
The mighty dead: giant bodies streaming blood,
Dread visages frowning in silent death.
Then Brutus spoke, inspired; our fathers sit
Attentive on the melancholy shore:
Hear ye the voice of Brutus—“The flowing waves
Of time come rolling o’er my breast,” he said;
“And my heart labours with futurity.
Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea.
“Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west.
Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam
Like eagles for the prey; nor shall the young
Crave or be heard; for plenty shall bring forth,
Cities shall sing, and vales in rich array
Shall laugh, whose fruitful laps bend down with fulness.
“Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy,
Each one buckling on his armour; Morning
Shall be prevented by their swords gleaming,
And Evening hear their song of victory:
Their towers shall be built upon the rocks,
Their daughters shall sing, surrounded with shining spears.
“Liberty shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion,
Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean;
Or towering stand upon the roaring waves,
Stretching her mighty spear o’er distant lands;
While with her eagle wings she covereth
Fair Albion’s shore, and all her families.”
Section II
SONGS OF INNOCENCE
Introduction
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
“Pipe a song about a Lamb!”
So I piped with merry cheer.
“Piper, pipe that song again;”
So I piped: he wept to hear.
“Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!”
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
“Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.”
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
The Shepherd
How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs’ innocent call,
And he hears the ewes’ tender reply;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their shepherd is nigh.
The Echoing Green
The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring,
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells’ cheerful sound;
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green.
Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,