Lyra Heroica Part 1

Lyra Heroica.

by Various.

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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bility of devotion--to a cause, an ideal, a pa.s.sion 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 cla.s.sic 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 'n.o.ble Numbers' was in course of growth--help in the way of counsel, suggestion, remonstrance, permission to use--has been such that it taxes grat.i.tude and makes complete acknowledgment impossible.

W. E. H.

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, a.s.sume 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 unraised spirits that have dared On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object. Can this c.o.c.kpit 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 upreared and ab.u.t.ting 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-gla.s.s.

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 winged 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 h.e.l.l and treason hold their promises, Ere he take s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p-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 pa.s.sed 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 amba.s.sador 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, accomplis.h.i.+ng the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country c.o.c.ks 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-l.u.s.ty 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 condemned 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-watched 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, Skirmis.h.i.+ng 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 amazed.

Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised.

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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble king, His broadsword brandis.h.i.+ng, 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 Bruised 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 n.o.ble 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?