 | England |  |
BATTLE OF CRECY.—FOUGHT AUGUST 26, 1346.
“Rejoice, ye men of Angiers, ring your bells;
Edward, your king, and England's doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day!
Their armours, that march'd hence so silver bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood;
There stuck no plume in any English crest
That is removed by a staff of France;
Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march'd forth;
And like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands
Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.”
—Shakspeare.
Edward, your king, and England's doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day!
Their armours, that march'd hence so silver bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood;
There stuck no plume in any English crest
That is removed by a staff of France;
Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march'd forth;
And like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands
Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.”
—Shakspeare.
“As for the great battles that were fought from time to time, it is confessed
by the French historians themselves, that the English were at most
but half in number to them, in all engagements.”—Harleian Miscellany,
page 285.
They tell us ye were slaves, brave Englishmen,
When this your country was in highest state;
That ye were slaves for driving to their den
The wolves of France! If slavery, it was great,
Brave and heroic, and of equal height
To liberty, and linked with equal deed.
If slavery, then long, long must we wait
Ere Liberty produces such a breed
Of kings and warriors now, to aid us in our need.
When this your country was in highest state;
That ye were slaves for driving to their den
The wolves of France! If slavery, it was great,
Brave and heroic, and of equal height
To liberty, and linked with equal deed.
If slavery, then long, long must we wait
Ere Liberty produces such a breed
Of kings and warriors now, to aid us in our need.
28
Was't like a slave to buckle on his arms,
Forsaking home and all that is most dear;—
Heroic mingle with rude war's alarms,
And spill his burning heart's-blood without fear,
So that his country's honour might stand clear?
Endure the dreary march, the sultry heat;
Hunger and thirst, the groan and bitter tear,
So that this land might hold her ancient seat?
Then let us all be slaves, if slavery be so great!
Forsaking home and all that is most dear;—
Heroic mingle with rude war's alarms,
And spill his burning heart's-blood without fear,
So that his country's honour might stand clear?
Endure the dreary march, the sultry heat;
Hunger and thirst, the groan and bitter tear,
So that this land might hold her ancient seat?
Then let us all be slaves, if slavery be so great!
Man's freedom is a rich and precious dower—
It is the spark by God elicited;
It guards him as an adamantine tower,
And, as a crown of gold, adorns his head.
With highest purposes is freedom wed:
It is the dearest blessing we can know!
And, oh! may this right hand be palsied,
If 'gainst the free it ever strike a blow,
Mingling with tyrants, ranks to keep the patriot low.
It is the spark by God elicited;
It guards him as an adamantine tower,
And, as a crown of gold, adorns his head.
With highest purposes is freedom wed:
It is the dearest blessing we can know!
And, oh! may this right hand be palsied,
If 'gainst the free it ever strike a blow,
Mingling with tyrants, ranks to keep the patriot low.
But that was freedom in the ancient time,
Spotted, perchance, and stain'd, but still the same:
Ne'er had the slave an aspect so sublime
As gave to Crecy those high deeds of fame.
Ne'er did the slave feel patriotic flame!
Laws might oppress—for England still was young;
To ancient things we give an ancient name:
But ancient as it was, it still hath rung
The world with mighty deeds—high acts that must be sung.
Spotted, perchance, and stain'd, but still the same:
Ne'er had the slave an aspect so sublime
As gave to Crecy those high deeds of fame.
Ne'er did the slave feel patriotic flame!
Laws might oppress—for England still was young;
To ancient things we give an ancient name:
But ancient as it was, it still hath rung
The world with mighty deeds—high acts that must be sung.
29
The sun of August looks serenely down
On the red vineyards, rolling far and wide;
The forest tops shine bright as with a crown—
Their rare embroider'd robes look out in pride,
With every rich and glorious colour dy'd;
The heavens are blue and calm, the sun is bright;
The fleeced clouds float gently side by side;
The waters roll away in lines of light,
And all things fresh and fair rejoice the aching sight.
On the red vineyards, rolling far and wide;
The forest tops shine bright as with a crown—
Their rare embroider'd robes look out in pride,
With every rich and glorious colour dy'd;
The heavens are blue and calm, the sun is bright;
The fleeced clouds float gently side by side;
The waters roll away in lines of light,
And all things fresh and fair rejoice the aching sight.
But hark! there is a sound to break this hush;
Moving of busy feet, and mingled cry,
And crowding hosts, together seem to rush:
The loud war-trumpet sends its notes on high,
And the deep drum disturbs the silent sky:
An earthquake seems to shake beneath their feet;
And the deep centre heaves an angry sigh,
As if some giant sought to move its seat;
And the huge forest trees groan mid the sultry heat.
Moving of busy feet, and mingled cry,
And crowding hosts, together seem to rush:
The loud war-trumpet sends its notes on high,
And the deep drum disturbs the silent sky:
An earthquake seems to shake beneath their feet;
And the deep centre heaves an angry sigh,
As if some giant sought to move its seat;
And the huge forest trees groan mid the sultry heat.
O glorious! such a sight was never seen,
Such glittering of arms—the helmets' glare,
The red swords' flash, the banners' gorgeous sheen,
And the deep plaited mail. Stunn'd is the air
With the loud-sounding noise; whilst everywhere
The war-steed neigheth in his stormy pride,
And shakes his streaming mane, as if to dare
The fight, and makes the earth sound far and wide,
As if himself were chief of all that warrior tide.
Such glittering of arms—the helmets' glare,
The red swords' flash, the banners' gorgeous sheen,
And the deep plaited mail. Stunn'd is the air
With the loud-sounding noise; whilst everywhere
The war-steed neigheth in his stormy pride,
And shakes his streaming mane, as if to dare
The fight, and makes the earth sound far and wide,
As if himself were chief of all that warrior tide.
30
The o'erhanging sky looks on applaudingly,
Yet with a silent pity—knowing well
That death will glaze full many an eagle eye,
And close those nostrils where fierce passions swell.
Well knowing that those valorous breasts will tell
Of bloody wounds, and red and streaming gore;
And that, ere long, decay will sternly dwell
Where hope and exultation now run o'er,
And those strong limbs, so swift, be numb'd for evermore!
Yet with a silent pity—knowing well
That death will glaze full many an eagle eye,
And close those nostrils where fierce passions swell.
Well knowing that those valorous breasts will tell
Of bloody wounds, and red and streaming gore;
And that, ere long, decay will sternly dwell
Where hope and exultation now run o'er,
And those strong limbs, so swift, be numb'd for evermore!
The tokens of approving love will fail,
Tho' born by might from tilt and tournament,
The scarfs and banners will be torn and frail,
Trampled in gore and mire. Each snow-white tent,
So bravely garnished, shall be soil'd and rent;
The glittering helmet will protect in vain
Beneath the war-steeds' hoofs, all delv'd and bent.
O what rude sights must greet the peaceful firmament.
Tho' born by might from tilt and tournament,
The scarfs and banners will be torn and frail,
Trampled in gore and mire. Each snow-white tent,
So bravely garnished, shall be soil'd and rent;
The glittering helmet will protect in vain
Beneath the war-steeds' hoofs, all delv'd and bent.
O what rude sights must greet the peaceful firmament.
On—on, and on!—Lo the vast mass doth strain
Fibre and nerve! Their hearts beat loud and high.
Fast, like strong waves upon the stormy main—
Fast, like fierce wolves, the furious Frenchmen hie;
Whilst, calm like rocks, to conquer or to die,
Stand England's heroes. “On, ye Genoese!”
Roared Philip: whilst St. George, the English cry.—
“St. George,”—“St. Dennis,” shook the astonied breeze
Louder than winter storms, upon tempestuous seas!
Fibre and nerve! Their hearts beat loud and high.
Fast, like strong waves upon the stormy main—
Fast, like fierce wolves, the furious Frenchmen hie;
Whilst, calm like rocks, to conquer or to die,
Stand England's heroes. “On, ye Genoese!”
Roared Philip: whilst St. George, the English cry.—
“St. George,”—“St. Dennis,” shook the astonied breeze
Louder than winter storms, upon tempestuous seas!
31
“St. Dennis” and “St. George,”—“on!” “on!” and “on!”
Was the continual shout. Whilst far and wide,
The banners shook the Frenchmen's ranks among.
But England's archers, banded side by side,
Undaunted stood, and mov'd not—in their pride,
Resolved “to do or die.” No foot they stirr'd,
Till, all at once, with mighty voice they cried—
And even like sheets of hail their arrows whirr'd,
Stopping each furious foe, even like a wounded bird.
Was the continual shout. Whilst far and wide,
The banners shook the Frenchmen's ranks among.
But England's archers, banded side by side,
Undaunted stood, and mov'd not—in their pride,
Resolved “to do or die.” No foot they stirr'd,
Till, all at once, with mighty voice they cried—
And even like sheets of hail their arrows whirr'd,
Stopping each furious foe, even like a wounded bird.
Then did old Luxemburgh, Bohemia's king,
Like to a stricken stag, still stand at bay;
Though gored and wounded, yet prepared to spring
Into the battle's rage, and hew his way.
It was indeed a wild and savage day!
“Is my son dead?” said Edward. “He is not.”
“Back then unto my son—away, away—
“Tell him to move not from that glorious spot;
“This victory be his—his fame he shall not blot.”
Like to a stricken stag, still stand at bay;
Though gored and wounded, yet prepared to spring
Into the battle's rage, and hew his way.
It was indeed a wild and savage day!
“Is my son dead?” said Edward. “He is not.”
“Back then unto my son—away, away—
“Tell him to move not from that glorious spot;
“This victory be his—his fame he shall not blot.”
There is on that red field a a glorious sight;
The youthful prince, even like a god is there;
His long locks streaming in the sunbeams' light,
His wild eyes gleaming glory's mad despair.
Scarce sixteen years have weaved a life of care;
His limbs are like Apollo's. To and fro
He dashes, spreading havoc everywhere—
But the two warrior knights have met, and lo!
The brave old Luxemburgh hath found his hated foe!
The youthful prince, even like a god is there;
His long locks streaming in the sunbeams' light,
His wild eyes gleaming glory's mad despair.
Scarce sixteen years have weaved a life of care;
His limbs are like Apollo's. To and fro
He dashes, spreading havoc everywhere—
But the two warrior knights have met, and lo!
The brave old Luxemburgh hath found his hated foe!
32
It seems like something of the ancient day,
When youthful knights sought out enchanters grim,
To rescue beauty from their cruel sway.
Wild, like an eagle, one:—the other, dim
With age. Young princely Edward in his prime
Of heart and limb—old Luxemburgh a tree
Worn by the tempests and corroding time.
The one is like a tiger in his glee,
The other, like a rock, that may not moved be.
When youthful knights sought out enchanters grim,
To rescue beauty from their cruel sway.
Wild, like an eagle, one:—the other, dim
With age. Young princely Edward in his prime
Of heart and limb—old Luxemburgh a tree
Worn by the tempests and corroding time.
The one is like a tiger in his glee,
The other, like a rock, that may not moved be.
Like sound of thrasher's flail, their blows descend,
The two alike, unmoving, undismay'd;
Long, long they struggle, neither still will bend,
Nor either call aloud for any aid.
Ye heavens, will ye not lend a sheltering shade?
The blind old hero reels!—he calls aloud!—
He falls, even like a mast by tempests sway'd—
The light hath left his eyes and forehead proud;
The pulse hath left his heart—bring Luxemburgh his shroud!
The two alike, unmoving, undismay'd;
Long, long they struggle, neither still will bend,
Nor either call aloud for any aid.
Ye heavens, will ye not lend a sheltering shade?
The blind old hero reels!—he calls aloud!—
He falls, even like a mast by tempests sway'd—
The light hath left his eyes and forehead proud;
The pulse hath left his heart—bring Luxemburgh his shroud!
“Ich dien,” that day the youthful Edward wore.
But hark, the moving squadrons fall away,
Like billows, swift-retreating from the shore,
Shattered and lost they fly!—O bloody day!
How could the sun e'er lend his fostering ray
To such a scene? How could the skies look down
On reeking gore, that hold such gentle sway?
Who would retain the sceptre and the crown,
Dy'd with a nation's gore, tho' girded with renown?
But hark, the moving squadrons fall away,
Like billows, swift-retreating from the shore,
Shattered and lost they fly!—O bloody day!
How could the sun e'er lend his fostering ray
To such a scene? How could the skies look down
On reeking gore, that hold such gentle sway?
Who would retain the sceptre and the crown,
Dy'd with a nation's gore, tho' girded with renown?
33
War-steeds, that in the morning threw the mane
Upon the admiring wind, lie steaming low,
Death-wounded, nor will ever rise again!
Strong heroes, with the helmet on their brow,
Where is their valour and their greatness now?
The sword is broken; and the shield is rent;
The plaited armour torn in shreds. Oh! how,
How can the stars upon yon firmament,
Look on this bloody scene, nor speak their discontent?
Upon the admiring wind, lie steaming low,
Death-wounded, nor will ever rise again!
Strong heroes, with the helmet on their brow,
Where is their valour and their greatness now?
The sword is broken; and the shield is rent;
The plaited armour torn in shreds. Oh! how,
How can the stars upon yon firmament,
Look on this bloody scene, nor speak their discontent?
How, how can man, with savage cruelty,
Thus slay for wicked hire, his brother-man?
Lay bare the fertile fields, and make the cry
Of Death and Desolation sound their ban—
And virgin beauty weep? O say, how can
He burn with such volcanic rage and hate
That all must wail where'er his feet have ran?
Sure, hell rejoices from her inmost gate,
And heaven laments in tears, to view our fallen state.
Thus slay for wicked hire, his brother-man?
Lay bare the fertile fields, and make the cry
Of Death and Desolation sound their ban—
And virgin beauty weep? O say, how can
He burn with such volcanic rage and hate
That all must wail where'er his feet have ran?
Sure, hell rejoices from her inmost gate,
And heaven laments in tears, to view our fallen state.
Majorca, and Bohemia, and Lorraine,
D'Alençon—every lord and noble knight—
How will your widows weep in bitter pain
Still hoping, thro' despair, your coming sight!
How will they wail this miserable fight!
Each little child will spread its tiny hand
To greet your form on the appointed night,
And, when ye come not to the gathered band,
Mothers will shriek revenge on England's hated land.
D'Alençon—every lord and noble knight—
How will your widows weep in bitter pain
Still hoping, thro' despair, your coming sight!
How will they wail this miserable fight!
Each little child will spread its tiny hand
To greet your form on the appointed night,
And, when ye come not to the gathered band,
Mothers will shriek revenge on England's hated land.
34
Never again your halls in festal glow
And merriment will scare the midnight moon;
Never again your steeds will wanton now,
Proud of your coming, in your bravery down.
Your staghounds will lament you late and soon—
Lament the vanish'd glories of the chace;
Your mighty woods will faint beneath the noon;
Your gardens lose their loveliness and grace,
And desolation reign in each deserted place!
And merriment will scare the midnight moon;
Never again your steeds will wanton now,
Proud of your coming, in your bravery down.
Your staghounds will lament you late and soon—
Lament the vanish'd glories of the chace;
Your mighty woods will faint beneath the noon;
Your gardens lose their loveliness and grace,
And desolation reign in each deserted place!
And you, ye humbler warriors, shall I leave
No offering for you? You nobly died
For glory and a name—I, therefore, grieve
That such high hearts were butchered in their pride.
The hills and vales will mourn ye far and wide!
The sound of lamentation and deep wail
Will echo from each cottag'd mountain-side
The history of your sad and doleful tale;
And minstrels sound your praise o'er time's continual gale.
No offering for you? You nobly died
For glory and a name—I, therefore, grieve
That such high hearts were butchered in their pride.
The hills and vales will mourn ye far and wide!
The sound of lamentation and deep wail
Will echo from each cottag'd mountain-side
The history of your sad and doleful tale;
And minstrels sound your praise o'er time's continual gale.
The white smoke from your cottage, standing lone,
Will seek the azure depths of heaven no more;
Your wives and children will do nought but groan,
Whose days like happy dreams once glided o'er,
And wander through the world oppressed and poor.
Oh! even the humblest born has that to lose
Which pains him—friendship, love. The vaunted lore
Of wisdom hath but this—and ye had those,
Ye warriors dead—sound hearts that sympathiz'd your woes.
Will seek the azure depths of heaven no more;
Your wives and children will do nought but groan,
Whose days like happy dreams once glided o'er,
And wander through the world oppressed and poor.
Oh! even the humblest born has that to lose
Which pains him—friendship, love. The vaunted lore
Of wisdom hath but this—and ye had those,
Ye warriors dead—sound hearts that sympathiz'd your woes.
35
Rest sweetly—sweetly rest, ye warrior dead!
Pilgrims from far, upon the battle field,
Where ye are shrined, will bow the pensive head,
And hang up trophies on each shatter'd shield.
Ye died like men and heroes, nor would yield,
Because your country spake. Ye battled on
Like lions, nor would cease. And now ye wield
The palm of immortality. Ye won
The undying wreath of fame—honour's eternal crown!
Pilgrims from far, upon the battle field,
Where ye are shrined, will bow the pensive head,
And hang up trophies on each shatter'd shield.
Ye died like men and heroes, nor would yield,
Because your country spake. Ye battled on
Like lions, nor would cease. And now ye wield
The palm of immortality. Ye won
The undying wreath of fame—honour's eternal crown!
For you, brave Englishmen, it is enough
That Crecy, Calais, Poictiers, Agincourt,
Knew your heroic strength, your valorous stuff.
It is enough that our bold soldiers wore
That day the wreaths that since have drench'd in gore
Vittoria, Salamanca, Waterloo!
And, if we look the page of history o'er,
We know, whatever ills from war accrue,
Peace wins a longer reign, and wears a fresher hue.
That Crecy, Calais, Poictiers, Agincourt,
Knew your heroic strength, your valorous stuff.
It is enough that our bold soldiers wore
That day the wreaths that since have drench'd in gore
Vittoria, Salamanca, Waterloo!
And, if we look the page of history o'er,
We know, whatever ills from war accrue,
Peace wins a longer reign, and wears a fresher hue.
The same high spirit lives among us yet,
Far on our mountains, deep in every vale.
Let but the invader ever dare to set
His foot on English ground, they will not fail
To rush, like banded wolves, and them assail.
Then, O ye glorious and immortal dead!
Your dirge be rung on freedom's freshest gale;
Your epitaph with history be wed,
And, in the lion-hearts, through all broad England spread.
Far on our mountains, deep in every vale.
Let but the invader ever dare to set
His foot on English ground, they will not fail
To rush, like banded wolves, and them assail.
Then, O ye glorious and immortal dead!
Your dirge be rung on freedom's freshest gale;
Your epitaph with history be wed,
And, in the lion-hearts, through all broad England spread.
36
Be ye of them who fell at Marathon,
Or by the cliffs of great Thermopylæ!
Of all the noblest hearts whom death hath won
In battle, butcher'd, fighting to be free.
Your bones are moulder'd; nothing can we see
Of that which gave ye strength, and life, and might,
But on the hills of immortality,
Like beacons from afar, ye pierce the night,
Shedding o'er every age and clime your lustrous light.
Or by the cliffs of great Thermopylæ!
Of all the noblest hearts whom death hath won
In battle, butcher'd, fighting to be free.
Your bones are moulder'd; nothing can we see
Of that which gave ye strength, and life, and might,
But on the hills of immortality,
Like beacons from afar, ye pierce the night,
Shedding o'er every age and clime your lustrous light.
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