The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
The fields have been red where the battle was burning,
The horse, man, and leader have fallen so fast,
That the joys of the fair have been changed into mourning,
But such a dread carnage is surely the last.
The horse, man, and leader have fallen so fast,
That the joys of the fair have been changed into mourning,
But such a dread carnage is surely the last.
To the floor of the hall let the ladies bring flowers—
At rest is the battle-axe, bow, and the quiver;
The enemy's fled, and the victory's ours,
And peace shall reside in our valley for ever.
At rest is the battle-axe, bow, and the quiver;
The enemy's fled, and the victory's ours,
And peace shall reside in our valley for ever.
This night we rejoice not that thousands are wounded;
No music shall sound o'er the myriads that fell,
Ere Edward's shrill trumpet the victory sounded,
And soldiers did actions no language can tell.
No music shall sound o'er the myriads that fell,
Ere Edward's shrill trumpet the victory sounded,
And soldiers did actions no language can tell.
They may sing of famed Cressy, where warriors did wonders,
When the clang of their arms to the skies did ascend,
But war sends not forth its most terrible thunders,
Till, raging, fierce Britons with Britons contend.
When the clang of their arms to the skies did ascend,
But war sends not forth its most terrible thunders,
Till, raging, fierce Britons with Britons contend.
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Then bursts in wild fury the lightning of battle;
The clash of the sword, of the lance, and the targe,
Are borne on the wind, and the horrible rattle
Swells louder and louder, as quicker they charge!
The clash of the sword, of the lance, and the targe,
Are borne on the wind, and the horrible rattle
Swells louder and louder, as quicker they charge!
Let time throw a veil o'er the dark scene of terrors
Depicted in gore on the breast of the plain,
And wine drown the sad recollection of horrors
That stalked in all forms on the field of the slain.
Depicted in gore on the breast of the plain,
And wine drown the sad recollection of horrors
That stalked in all forms on the field of the slain.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |