 | England |  |
37
SIEGE OF CALAIS, FROM AUGUST, 1346, TO JULY, 1347.
“Hark! through the silence of the cold dull night,
The hum of armies gathering, rank on rank!
Lo! dusky masses steal, in dubious sight,
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank
Of the armed river, while, with straggling light,
The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank,
Which curl in curious wreaths—How soon the smoke
Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak!”
—Lord Byron.
The hum of armies gathering, rank on rank!
Lo! dusky masses steal, in dubious sight,
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank
Of the armed river, while, with straggling light,
The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank,
Which curl in curious wreaths—How soon the smoke
Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak!”
—Lord Byron.
“O foolish mortals! always taught in vain!
Oh glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf
Of this imaginary deathless tree,
Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.”
—Lord Byron.
Oh glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf
Of this imaginary deathless tree,
Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea.”
—Lord Byron.
“Glory to God and the Empress, Ismail's ours!”—Suwarrow's letter
to the Empress Catharine.
Days, weeks, and months, how swiftly passed they on
In peace and happiness o'er many a clime!
But, Calais, not for thee! Thou, thou alone
Wert miserable. Came the summer prime,
Wreathing its flowers around the brow of time;
Came the red autumn, showering all its wealth,
And winter, with its tempests, heard sublime;
And spring, with breezes and the voice of health—
But Calais felt them not; or if she did, by stealth!
In peace and happiness o'er many a clime!
But, Calais, not for thee! Thou, thou alone
Wert miserable. Came the summer prime,
Wreathing its flowers around the brow of time;
Came the red autumn, showering all its wealth,
And winter, with its tempests, heard sublime;
And spring, with breezes and the voice of health—
But Calais felt them not; or if she did, by stealth!
38
The notes of strife were sounding in her street—
The war-steeds' thunder and the clash of arms—
The heavy clang—the swiftly moving feet—
The exploding crash—terrific war's alarms!
Nought heard of, but red wounds and cruel harms,
Of ruined homes, of valiant soldiers slain.
Oh! how the indignant bosom throbs and warms
To hear of such wild deeds; such cruel pain
By man inflicted still, in never ending train!
The war-steeds' thunder and the clash of arms—
The heavy clang—the swiftly moving feet—
The exploding crash—terrific war's alarms!
Nought heard of, but red wounds and cruel harms,
Of ruined homes, of valiant soldiers slain.
Oh! how the indignant bosom throbs and warms
To hear of such wild deeds; such cruel pain
By man inflicted still, in never ending train!
And Calais wakes at morn—alas for them,
Repose is far away! They view the sun
At mid-day burning—still their grief's the same!
At eve, they cannot hear the breezes run,
For battle's crash of arms. The gentle moon
Shines fair in middle heaven, with all her host
Of glittering stars—midnight's celestial noon;
Yet still the turmoil lasts—their passions lost
In agony and dread, like stormy seas uptost.
Repose is far away! They view the sun
At mid-day burning—still their grief's the same!
At eve, they cannot hear the breezes run,
For battle's crash of arms. The gentle moon
Shines fair in middle heaven, with all her host
Of glittering stars—midnight's celestial noon;
Yet still the turmoil lasts—their passions lost
In agony and dread, like stormy seas uptost.
Within their sleep, pale, ghastly phantoms come—
Nightmares, and hideous dreams. The hush of night
Is dreadful. Wheresoe'er their eyeballs roam,
The same, same vision meets their loathing sight,
Of those unmoving camps and banners bright,
Around their leaguer'd town. Almost they hear
The victors' snore amid the waning light,
The opposing army lie encamp'd so near.
Days, nights, weeks, months,—still, still 'tis one continual fear.
Nightmares, and hideous dreams. The hush of night
Is dreadful. Wheresoe'er their eyeballs roam,
The same, same vision meets their loathing sight,
Of those unmoving camps and banners bright,
Around their leaguer'd town. Almost they hear
The victors' snore amid the waning light,
The opposing army lie encamp'd so near.
Days, nights, weeks, months,—still, still 'tis one continual fear.
39
And Famine came with his far-streaming torch,
And burnt their granaries, and eat their food,
Till in his wild and desolating march,
All was consum'd that once so bravely stood;
And nought was left, save human flesh and blood.
In vain the little infant shriek'd, and cried,
And beat its mother's breast in angry mood
For sustenance—its fount of life was dried—
In vain the mother groan'd, and wept aloud, and died.
And burnt their granaries, and eat their food,
Till in his wild and desolating march,
All was consum'd that once so bravely stood;
And nought was left, save human flesh and blood.
In vain the little infant shriek'd, and cried,
And beat its mother's breast in angry mood
For sustenance—its fount of life was dried—
In vain the mother groan'd, and wept aloud, and died.
Men fought like tigers for the moulded crust,
Glaring demoniac o'er the wretch who won;
And lick'd from off their swords the gather'd rust,
And eat the belt that round their bodies run,
And even their dagger's sheath. They cursed the sun
That dried their fountains. Then they cursed their God,
Who from the skies beheld them thus undone,
And sent no aid—no Aaron with his rod;
They cursed the barren ground on which their footsteps trod.
Glaring demoniac o'er the wretch who won;
And lick'd from off their swords the gather'd rust,
And eat the belt that round their bodies run,
And even their dagger's sheath. They cursed the sun
That dried their fountains. Then they cursed their God,
Who from the skies beheld them thus undone,
And sent no aid—no Aaron with his rod;
They cursed the barren ground on which their footsteps trod.
Young boys and maidens, rolling in the mire,
Sucked the moist ground, made wet with tears and blood;
Sire murdered feebler son—son murdered sire,
To win the latest morsel of his food.
And maniacs ran about in savage mood,
With broken swords and spears, demanding bread;
And robbed and murdered those whom they subdued;
Mangling in rage their wretched forms when dead;
Because no food remained with which they might be fed.
Sucked the moist ground, made wet with tears and blood;
Sire murdered feebler son—son murdered sire,
To win the latest morsel of his food.
And maniacs ran about in savage mood,
With broken swords and spears, demanding bread;
And robbed and murdered those whom they subdued;
Mangling in rage their wretched forms when dead;
Because no food remained with which they might be fed.
40
Strong heroes, who in war had hewed their way
Up to the war-steed's throat, like children moan'd;
Bold children, who did nought but laugh and play,
By the extinguished fire now wept and groan'd;
Or in the streets, for food, each other ston'd.
Pure lovely maidens sunk away and died;
Some mad, in wild delirious phrenzy bound—
Some like the blighted violet pined and sighed
Their lovely lives away, that day by day did glide.
Up to the war-steed's throat, like children moan'd;
Bold children, who did nought but laugh and play,
By the extinguished fire now wept and groan'd;
Or in the streets, for food, each other ston'd.
Pure lovely maidens sunk away and died;
Some mad, in wild delirious phrenzy bound—
Some like the blighted violet pined and sighed
Their lovely lives away, that day by day did glide.
Love, that in bowers had twined the amorous lay,
And wreathed white fingers in its mistress' hair,
Soothing, with tender ditties and sweet play,
The wanton hours, was chang'd into despair
And bitter hate. The voice of evening prayer
Was turn'd to execration, loud and deep.
Hope, that had wiled them long with aspect fair,
Forsook them now. They cannot rest nor sleep,
But stalk about like ghosts, that ever sob and weep.
And wreathed white fingers in its mistress' hair,
Soothing, with tender ditties and sweet play,
The wanton hours, was chang'd into despair
And bitter hate. The voice of evening prayer
Was turn'd to execration, loud and deep.
Hope, that had wiled them long with aspect fair,
Forsook them now. They cannot rest nor sleep,
But stalk about like ghosts, that ever sob and weep.
Woe, woe, eternal woe, that this should be!
O, could ye dream, ye angels dwelling high,
That man should ever feel such misery?
Ye saw him, like yourselves, who cannot die,
Nor feel a pang, in paradise; no sigh
Was his, no tear. In peace he spent the day,
Roaming about, as ye do in the sky,
Among celestial blooms. At night, the ray
Of the sweet moon was his, and love's enraptur'd play.
O, could ye dream, ye angels dwelling high,
That man should ever feel such misery?
Ye saw him, like yourselves, who cannot die,
Nor feel a pang, in paradise; no sigh
Was his, no tear. In peace he spent the day,
Roaming about, as ye do in the sky,
Among celestial blooms. At night, the ray
Of the sweet moon was his, and love's enraptur'd play.
41
Ye saw him in his nature, calm and pure,
Even like yourselves. No sorrow stain'd his brow—
He had no pang or suffering to endure.
The azure skies he view'd (their painted bow
Was not, for cloud nor storm existed now);
He twined his fingers in the lion's mane,
And with the shy dear gamboll'd. His the glow
Of an eternal spring; he felt no pain
For past or future—would such rapture were again!
Even like yourselves. No sorrow stain'd his brow—
He had no pang or suffering to endure.
The azure skies he view'd (their painted bow
Was not, for cloud nor storm existed now);
He twined his fingers in the lion's mane,
And with the shy dear gamboll'd. His the glow
Of an eternal spring; he felt no pain
For past or future—would such rapture were again!
With lovely Eve he wandered, hand in hand,
And spake in language lofty and sublime,
Showing the splendours of that happy land,
And praising God who gave that glorious prime.
(Kissing his gentle spouse full many a time.)
The life of man was like a summer dream,
Dwelling for ever in a heavenly clime.
What he is now—alas full well I deem,
Thou, Calais, well can'st speak in this my woeful theme.
And spake in language lofty and sublime,
Showing the splendours of that happy land,
And praising God who gave that glorious prime.
(Kissing his gentle spouse full many a time.)
The life of man was like a summer dream,
Dwelling for ever in a heavenly clime.
What he is now—alas full well I deem,
Thou, Calais, well can'st speak in this my woeful theme.
From many a broken heart and ruined home;
From blood, and tears, and groans of agony;
From corpses weltering in the charnel gloom,
And maniacs dancing o'er the graves in glee,
And screaming loud, like demons broken free
From shattered halls and festal splendour, o'er
The shiver'd domes of hospitality.
Well, well, O Calais! can'st thou man explore,
“Fallen from his high estate and weltering in his gore!”
From blood, and tears, and groans of agony;
From corpses weltering in the charnel gloom,
And maniacs dancing o'er the graves in glee,
And screaming loud, like demons broken free
From shattered halls and festal splendour, o'er
The shiver'd domes of hospitality.
Well, well, O Calais! can'st thou man explore,
“Fallen from his high estate and weltering in his gore!”
42
There is a crowd in Calais: from each street
And every house great multitudes throng fast.
Old men and children crawl with languid feet;
And even the strongest, worn away at last,
Now move like skeletons, pale and aghast!
All now assemble in the market place,
Narrating on the sorrows of the past,
And, wildly glaring on each speaker's face,
They marvel what relief their sufferings may efface.
And every house great multitudes throng fast.
Old men and children crawl with languid feet;
And even the strongest, worn away at last,
Now move like skeletons, pale and aghast!
All now assemble in the market place,
Narrating on the sorrows of the past,
And, wildly glaring on each speaker's face,
They marvel what relief their sufferings may efface.
“What shall we do?” they said. “We have no food.
No living thing except ourselves is here.”
If ye would feed on human flesh and blood,
Then fight ye on, and Calais be your bier!
If this ye loathe, surrender! Not thro' fear,
But dire necessity. We still remain
Unconquered; in our honour, pure and clear;
And history will shew, in letters plain,
That Heaven and Edward won—but Calais bore no stain.
No living thing except ourselves is here.”
If ye would feed on human flesh and blood,
Then fight ye on, and Calais be your bier!
If this ye loathe, surrender! Not thro' fear,
But dire necessity. We still remain
Unconquered; in our honour, pure and clear;
And history will shew, in letters plain,
That Heaven and Edward won—but Calais bore no stain.
“History will paint our sufferings, and lament,
In many a tearful page, our dreadful woe.”
All wept to hear—for, shatter'd, worn, and bent
With constant grief, they could not brave the foe
Longer. They could not strike another blow.
The men sobb'd; and the women tore their hair;
And the small infants shrieked; and to and fro
The youthful heroes ran, in mad despair,
Or, with their valiant swords, put out their life of care.
In many a tearful page, our dreadful woe.”
All wept to hear—for, shatter'd, worn, and bent
With constant grief, they could not brave the foe
Longer. They could not strike another blow.
The men sobb'd; and the women tore their hair;
And the small infants shrieked; and to and fro
The youthful heroes ran, in mad despair,
Or, with their valiant swords, put out their life of care.
43
Then up spake gallant Eustace de St. Pierre,
“To save the people, I will be the first
To put my life in jeopardy. I'm here
For France, and let the victors do their worst:
France is my country. In her bosom nurst,
It is my pride to die.” Then others came,
And, bending to the tyranny accurst,
Prepared to share their brave commander's shame;
And O! is not the deed enrolled in endles fame?
“To save the people, I will be the first
To put my life in jeopardy. I'm here
For France, and let the victors do their worst:
France is my country. In her bosom nurst,
It is my pride to die.” Then others came,
And, bending to the tyranny accurst,
Prepared to share their brave commander's shame;
And O! is not the deed enrolled in endles fame?
Lo, Edward sits aloft in royal state
Beside his noble queen. (The same who beat
At Neville's Cross proud Scotland.) Thousands wait
Around;—the warriors, whose victorious feet
Crecy had heard. Each baron takes his seat
Around the king. The banners, borne on high,
Droop mournfully amid the sultry heat;
Far thunder-clouds come low'ring o'er the sky—
Surely some noble knight—some monarch is to die!
Beside his noble queen. (The same who beat
At Neville's Cross proud Scotland.) Thousands wait
Around;—the warriors, whose victorious feet
Crecy had heard. Each baron takes his seat
Around the king. The banners, borne on high,
Droop mournfully amid the sultry heat;
Far thunder-clouds come low'ring o'er the sky—
Surely some noble knight—some monarch is to die!
Ah! woe is me, what piteous sight is this!
What phantoms of the dead come stalking here?
What miserable shapes, devoid of bliss,
From Erebus broke loose, are gliding near?
Alas, poor burgesses! full many a tear
Those aching eyes have wept, full many a groan
Those shrivell'd breasts have heav'd; and bitter fear,
Like burning chains, hath eaten flesh and bone—
What hideous crimes are yours, that you must thus atone?
What phantoms of the dead come stalking here?
What miserable shapes, devoid of bliss,
From Erebus broke loose, are gliding near?
Alas, poor burgesses! full many a tear
Those aching eyes have wept, full many a groan
Those shrivell'd breasts have heav'd; and bitter fear,
Like burning chains, hath eaten flesh and bone—
What hideous crimes are yours, that you must thus atone?
44
Their silvery locks are thin and worn away,
Their manly cheeks are colourless and pale,
Nought shrouds their foreheads from the sultry ray—
Nought saves their feet from thorns that may assail.
Their limbs are bare—all, save a covering frail
To hide their nakedness—their shame conceal.
Around their necks—O sad and woeful tale!—
A halter hangs!—King! does no pity steal
Into thy savage heart? How canst thou help but feel?
Their manly cheeks are colourless and pale,
Nought shrouds their foreheads from the sultry ray—
Nought saves their feet from thorns that may assail.
Their limbs are bare—all, save a covering frail
To hide their nakedness—their shame conceal.
Around their necks—O sad and woeful tale!—
A halter hangs!—King! does no pity steal
Into thy savage heart? How canst thou help but feel?
Fierce, like a tiger glaring on his prey,
So looked the madden'd and ferocious king.
“Bring here the hangman—they shall die this day
“And feed the vulture!—ho!—the hangman bring!”
The barons grim, who would have dared to spring
Through the volcano's throat, to meet a foe,
Wept audibly. Then did the queen, fair thing,
Fall on her knees, and, with a voice of woe,
Beseech her lord the boon—to let these brave men go.
So looked the madden'd and ferocious king.
“Bring here the hangman—they shall die this day
“And feed the vulture!—ho!—the hangman bring!”
The barons grim, who would have dared to spring
Through the volcano's throat, to meet a foe,
Wept audibly. Then did the queen, fair thing,
Fall on her knees, and, with a voice of woe,
Beseech her lord the boon—to let these brave men go.
He could not choose but grant it. Praise be thine,
Philippa! constant praise for that high deed.
It was a gem that made thy crown divine,
And, through the gloom of ages, still doth breed
Proud dreams of thee, and thy immortal seed.
The battle's triumph and the victor's praise
May fade, or unto nought their conquests lead—
But acts like this the human spirit raise;
Living to every age, in never-dying lays!
Philippa! constant praise for that high deed.
It was a gem that made thy crown divine,
And, through the gloom of ages, still doth breed
Proud dreams of thee, and thy immortal seed.
The battle's triumph and the victor's praise
May fade, or unto nought their conquests lead—
But acts like this the human spirit raise;
Living to every age, in never-dying lays!
45
They live, like halos, o'er the midnight past:
Soft roses on the brow of hungry war.
We half forget the woes that overcast
The dreadful rout of his triumphal car—
The bloodshed—the contention's cruel jar—
The groans of dying men—when acts so pure
Shine out, as through the tempest gleams a star.
War's present woe may future hopes allure,
But actions great like this, for evermore endure.
Soft roses on the brow of hungry war.
We half forget the woes that overcast
The dreadful rout of his triumphal car—
The bloodshed—the contention's cruel jar—
The groans of dying men—when acts so pure
Shine out, as through the tempest gleams a star.
War's present woe may future hopes allure,
But actions great like this, for evermore endure.
Ages are past away to endless night,
And what of all these conquests now remains?
What have we left of Crecy's cruel fight,
Of Calais' vanquished town, and all its gains,
Of Poictiers, Agincourt?—What but their pains?
All of those mighty conquerors are dead,
Who fought so true, and history, sole, retains
Their glorious relics. They are gone to bed,
Where neither sin nor sorrow touch the aching head.
And what of all these conquests now remains?
What have we left of Crecy's cruel fight,
Of Calais' vanquished town, and all its gains,
Of Poictiers, Agincourt?—What but their pains?
All of those mighty conquerors are dead,
Who fought so true, and history, sole, retains
Their glorious relics. They are gone to bed,
Where neither sin nor sorrow touch the aching head.
Yet, like the pillar of celestial light,
That shone to Israel's children—in their woe,
Those names still live, far shining, pure and bright.
Shedding, to every time, their constant glow:
They live to let Old England teach her foe
How France's plains have been her battle-field,
Where she hath driven its traitorous madmen low;
Hanging upon its towers her 'scutcheon'd shield,
And shewing France's sons, how we the sword can wield.
That shone to Israel's children—in their woe,
Those names still live, far shining, pure and bright.
Shedding, to every time, their constant glow:
They live to let Old England teach her foe
How France's plains have been her battle-field,
Where she hath driven its traitorous madmen low;
Hanging upon its towers her 'scutcheon'd shield,
And shewing France's sons, how we the sword can wield.
46
Farewell to royal Edward. Lovely Shene,
Embossed in woods, received his latest sigh;
And lovely Perrers watched the closing scene.
(Sure, it is false, that that celestial eye
Ere looked on Mammon—robbing, miserably,
The dying king!) He lies, in silent death,
Beneath the shade of solemn Canterbury.
War cannot mingle with his stifled breath:
Its thunders cannot shake his sepulchre beneath.
Embossed in woods, received his latest sigh;
And lovely Perrers watched the closing scene.
(Sure, it is false, that that celestial eye
Ere looked on Mammon—robbing, miserably,
The dying king!) He lies, in silent death,
Beneath the shade of solemn Canterbury.
War cannot mingle with his stifled breath:
Its thunders cannot shake his sepulchre beneath.
His spirit is with those immortal dead
Whose mighty actions held the world at bay—
With Alexander, Cæsar, Cyrus, wed:—
Heroes, to whom all climates have given way.
He lived, too, in a great and glorious day,
When chivalry was in its proudest prime;
And truth, and honour held victorious sway;
He lived when human nature soared sublime—
The poet's blessings be upon that glorious time!
Whose mighty actions held the world at bay—
With Alexander, Cæsar, Cyrus, wed:—
Heroes, to whom all climates have given way.
He lived, too, in a great and glorious day,
When chivalry was in its proudest prime;
And truth, and honour held victorious sway;
He lived when human nature soared sublime—
The poet's blessings be upon that glorious time!
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