| O Thou with dewy locks, who 
      lookest downThro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
 Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
 Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
 The hills tell each other, and 
      the list'ningValleys hear; all our longing eyes are turnèd
 Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
 And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
 Come o'er the eastern hills, and 
      let our windsKiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
 Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
 Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
 O deck her forth with thy fair 
      fingers; pourThy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
 Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
 Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.
 To Summer O thou who passest thro' our 
      valleys inThy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
 That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
 Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft
 Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
 With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
 Beneath our thickest shades we 
      oft have heardThy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
 Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
 Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
 Some bank beside a river clear, 
      throw thySilk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
 Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
 Our bards are fam'd who strike 
      the silver wire:Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
 Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
 We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
 Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
 Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
 To Autumn O Autumn, laden with fruit, and 
      stainèdWith the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
 Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
 And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
 And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
 Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
 `The narrow bud opens her 
      beauties toThe sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
 Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
 Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
 Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
 And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
 `The spirits of the air live on 
      the smellsOf fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
 The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
 Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
 Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
 Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
 To Winter `O Winter! bar thine adamantine 
      doors:The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
 Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
 Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.'
 He hears me not, but o'er the 
      yawning deepRides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathèd
 In ribbèd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,
 For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
 Lo! now the direful monster, 
      whose  skin clingsTo his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:
 He withers all in silence, and in his hand
 Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
 He takes his seat upon the 
      cliffs,--the marinerCries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st
 With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster
 Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.
 To the Evening StarThou fair-hair'd angel of the 
      evening,Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
 Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
 Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
 Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the
 Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
 On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
 In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
 The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
 And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
 Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
 And the lion glares thro' the dun forest:
 The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with
 Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence,
 To MorningO holy virgin! clad in purest 
      white,Unlock heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth;
 Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
 Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
 The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day.
 O radiant morning, salute the sun
 Rous'd like a huntsman to the chase, and with
 Thy buskin'd feet appear upon our hills.
 Fair ElenorThe bell struck one, and shook 
      the silent tower;The graves give up their dead: fair Elenor
 Walk'd by the castle gate, and lookèd in.
 A hollow groan ran thro' the dreary vaults.
 She shriek'd aloud, and sunk upon 
      the steps,On the cold stone her pale cheeks. Sickly smells
 Of death issue as from a sepulchre,
 And all is silent but the sighing vaults.
 Chill Death withdraws his hand, 
      and she revives;Amaz'd, she finds herself upon her feet,
 And, like a ghost, thro' narrow passages
 Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.
 Fancy returns, and now she thinks 
      of bonesAnd grinning skulls, and corruptible death
 Wrapp'd in his shroud; and now fancies she hears
 Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.
 At length, no fancy but realityDistracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet
 Of one that fled, approaches--Ellen stood
 Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.
 The wretch approaches, crying: 
      `The deed is done;Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send;
 It is my life--send it to Elenor:--
 He's dead, and howling after me for blood!
 `Take this,' he cried; and thrust 
      into her armsA wet napkin, wrapp'd about; then rush'd
 Past, howling: she receiv'd into her arms
 Pale death, and follow'd on the wings of fear.
 They pass'd swift thro' the outer 
      gate; the wretch,Howling, leap'd o'er the wall into the moat,
 Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass'd the bridge,
 And heard a gloomy voice cry `Is it done?'
 As the deer wounded, Ellen flew 
      overThe pathless plain; as the arrows that fly
 By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.
 She fled from fear, till at her house arriv'd.
 Her maids await her; on her bed 
      she falls,That bed of joy, where erst her lord hath press'd:
 `Ah, woman's fear!' she cried; `ah, cursèd duke!
 Ah, my dear lord! ah, wretched Elenor!
 `My lord was like a flower upon 
      the browsOf lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower!
 O ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand,
 Seek'st thou that flow'r to deck thy horrid temples?
 `My lord was like a star in 
      highest heav'nDrawn down to earth by spells and wickedness;
 My lord was like the opening eyes of day
 When western winds creep softly o'er the flowers;
 `But he is darken'd; like the 
      summer's noonClouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down;
 The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves.
 O Elenor, weak woman, fill'd with woe!'
 Thus having spoke, she raisèd up 
      her head,And saw the bloody napkin by her side,
 Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold
 More terrifièd, saw it unfold itself.
 Her eyes were fix'd; the bloody 
      cloth unfolds,Disclosing to her sight the murder'd head
 Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted
 With gory blood; it groan'd, and thus it spake:
 `O Elenor, I am thy husband's 
      head,Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,
 Was 'reft of life by the accursèd duke!
 A hirèd villain turn'd my sleep to death!
 `O Elenor, beware the cursèd 
      duke;O give not him thy hand, now I am dead;
 He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night,
 Hirèd a villain to bereave my life.'
 She sat with dead cold limbs, 
      stiffen'd to stone;She took the gory head up in her arms;
 She kiss'd the pale lips; she had no tears to shed;
 She hugg'd it to her breast, and groan'd her last.
 SongHow sweet I roam'd from field to 
      fieldAnd tasted all the summer's pride,
 Till I the Prince of Love beheld
 Who in the sunny beams did glide!
 He show'd me lilies for my hair,And blushing roses for my brow;
 He led me through his gardens fair
 Where all his golden pleasures grow.
 With sweet May dews my wings were 
      wet,And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
 He caught me in his silken net,
 And shut me in his golden cage.
 He loves to sit and hear me sing,Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
 Then stretches out my golden wing,
 And mocks my loss of liberty.
 SongMy silks and fine array,My smiles and languish'd air,
 By love are driv'n away;
 And mournful lean Despair
 Brings me yew to deck my grave;
 Such end true lovers have.
 His face is fair as heav'nWhen springing buds unfold;
 O why to him was't giv'n
 Whose heart is wintry cold?
 His breast is love's all-worshipp'd tomb,
 Where all love's pilgrims come.
 Bring me an axe and spade,Bring me a winding-sheet;
 When I my grave have made
 Let winds and tempests beat:
 Then down I'll lie as cold as clay.
 True love doth pass away!
 SongLove and harmony combine,And around our souls entwine
 While thy branches mix with mine,
 And our roots together join.
 Joys upon our branches sit,Chirping loud and singing sweet;
 Like gentle streams beneath our feet
 Innocence and virtue meet.
 Thou the golden fruit dost bear,I am clad in flowers fair;
 Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,
 And the turtle buildeth there.
 There she sits and feeds her 
      young,Sweet I hear her mournful song;
 And thy lovely leaves among,
 There is love, I hear his tongue.
 There his charming nest 
      doth lay,There he sleeps the night away;
 There he sports along the day,
 And doth among our branches play.
 SongI love the jocund dance,The softly breathing song,
 Where innocent eyes do glance,
 And where lisps the maiden's tongue.
 I love the laughing vale,I love the echoing hill,
 Where mirth does never fail,
 And the jolly swain laughs his fill.
 I love the pleasant cot,I love the innocent bow'r,
 Where white and brown is our lot,
 Or fruit in the mid-day hour.
 I love the oaken seat,Beneath the oaken tree,
 Where all the old villagers meet,
 And laugh our sports to see.
 I love our neighbours all,But, Kitty, I better love thee;
 And love them I ever shall;
 But thou art all to me.
 SongMemory, hither comeAnd tune your merry notes:
 And, while upon the wind
 Your music floats,
 I'll pore upon the stream
 Where sighing lovers dream,
 And fish for fancies as they pass
 Within the watery glass.
 I'll drink of the clear stream,And hear the linnet's song;
 And there I'll lie and dream
 The day along:
 And when night comes, I'll go
 To places fit for woe,
 Walking along the darken'd valley
 With silent Melancholy.
 Mad SongThe wild winds weep,And the night is a-cold;
 Come hither, Sleep,
 And my griefs unfold:
 But lo! the morning peeps
 Over the eastern steeps,
 And the rustling beds of dawn
 The earth do scorn.
 Lo! to the vaultOf pavèd heaven,
 With sorrow fraught
 My notes are driven:
 They strike the ear of night,
 Make weep the eyes of day;
 They make made the roaring winds,
 And with tempests play.
 Like a fiend in a cloud,With howling woe
 After night I do crowd,
 And with night will go;
 I turn my back to the east
 From whence comforts have increas'd
 For light doth seize my brain
 With frantic pain.
 SongFresh from the dewy hill, the 
      merry yearSmiles on my head and mounts his flaming car;
 Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,
 And rising glories beam around my head.
 My feet are wing'd, while o'er 
      the dewy lawn,I meet my maiden risen like the morn:
 O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;
 O bless those limbs, beaming with heav'nly light.
 Like as an angel glitt'ring in 
      the skyIn times of innocence and holy joy;
 The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song
 To hear the music of an angel's tongue.
 So when she speaks, the voice of 
      Heaven I hear;So when we walk, nothing impure comes near;
 Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;
 Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.
 But that sweet village where my 
      black-eyed maidCloses her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade,
 Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire
 Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.
 SongWhen early morn walks forth in 
      sober grey,Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away;
 When evening sits beneath her dusky bow'r,
 And gently sighs away the silent hour,
 The village bell alarms, away I go,
 And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.
 To that sweet village, where my 
      black-eyed maidDoth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,
 I turn my eyes; and pensive as I go
 Curse my black stars and bless my pleasing woe.
 Oft when the summer sleeps among 
      the trees,Whisp'ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,
 I walk the village round; if at her side
 A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,
 I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,
 That made my love so high and me so low.
 O should she e'er prove false, 
      his limbs I'd tearAnd throw all pity on the burning air;
 I'd curse bright fortune for my mixèd lot,
 And then I'd die in peace and be forgot.
 Welcome, stranger, to this place,Where joy doth sit on every bough,
 Paleness flies from every face;
 We reap not what we do not sow.
 Innocence doth like a roseBloom on every maiden's cheek;
 Honour twines around her brows,
 The jewel health adorns her neck.
 When silver snow decks Sylvio's clothes,And jewel hangs at shepherd's nose,
 We can abide life's pelting storm,
 That makes our limbs quake, if our hearts be warm.
 Whilst Virtue is our walking-staff,And Truth a lantern to our path,
 We can abide life's pelting storm,
 That makes our limbs quake, if our hearts be warm.
 Blow, boisterous wind, stern winter frown,Innocence is a winter's gown.
 So clad, we'll abide life's pelting storm,
 That makes our limbs quake, if our hearts be warm.
 Whether on Ida's shady brow,Or in the chambers of the East,
 The chambers of the sun, that now
 From ancient melody have ceas'd;
 Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,
 Or the blue regions of the air
 Where the melodious winds have birth;
 Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,Beneath the bosom of the sea
 Wand'ring in many a coral grove,
 Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!
 How have you left the ancient 
      loveThat bards of old enjoy'd in you!
 The languid strings do scarcely move!
 The sound is forc'd, the notes are few
 Come, kings, and listen to my 
      song:When Gwin, the son of Nore,
 Over the nations of the North
 His cruel sceptre bore;
 The nobles of the land did feedUpon the hungry poor;
 They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive
 The needy from their door.
 `The land is desolate; our wivesAnd children cry for bread;
 Arise, and pull the tyrant down!
 Let Gwin be humblèd!'
 Gordred the giant rous'd himselfFrom sleeping in his cave;
 He shook the hills, and in the clouds
 The troubl'd banners wave.
 Beneath them roll'd, like 
      tempests black,The num'rous sons of blood;
 Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
 Seeking their nightly food.
 Down Bleron's hills they dreadful 
      rush,Their cry ascends the clouds;
 The trampling horse and clanging arms
 Like rushing mighty floods!
 Their wives and children, weeping 
      loud,Follow in wild array,
 Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
 In the bleak wintry day.
 `Pull down the tyrant to the 
      dust,Let Gwin be humblèd,'
 They cry, `and let ten thousand lives
 Pay for the tyrant's head.'
 From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen 
      cry,`O Gwin, the son of Nore,
 Arouse thyself! the nations, black
 Like clouds, come rolling o'er!'
 Gwin rear'd his shield, his 
      palace shakes,His chiefs come rushing round;
 Each, like an awful thunder cloud,
 With voice of solemn sound:
 Like rearèd stones around a graveThey stand around the King;
 Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear,
 And clashing steel does ring.
 The husbandman does leave his 
      ploughTo wade thro' fields of gore;
 The merchant binds his brows in steel,
 And leaves the trading shore;
 The shepherd leaves his mellow 
      pipe,And sounds the trumpet shrill;
 The workman throws his hammer down
 To heave the bloody bill.
 Like the tall ghost of BarratonWho sports in stormy sky,
 Gwin leads his host, as black as night
 When pestilence does fly,
 With horses and with chariots--And all his spearmen bold
 March to the sound of mournful song,
 Like clouds around him roll'd.
 Gwin lifts his hand--the nations 
      halt;`Prepare for war!' he cries--
 Gordred appears!--his frowning brow
 Troubles our northern skies.
 The armies stand, like balancesHeld in th' Almighty's hand;--
 `Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up:
 Thou'rt swept from out the land.'
 And now the raging armies rush'dLike warring mighty seas;
 The heav'ns are shook with roaring war,
 The dust ascends the skies!
 Earth smokes with blood, and 
      groans and shakesTo drink her children's gore,
 A sea of blood; nor can the eye
 See to the trembling shore!
 And on the verge of this wild seaFamine and death doth cry;
 The cries of women and of babes
 Over the field doth fly.
 The King is seen raging afar,With all his men of might;
 Like blazing comets scattering death
 Thro' the red fev'rous night.
 Beneath his arm like sheep they 
      die,And groan upon the plain;
 The battle faints, and bloody men
 Fight upon hills of slain.
 Now death is sick, and riven menLabour and toil for life;
 Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,
 Sunk in this sea of strife!
 The god of war is drunk with 
      blood;The earth doth faint and fail;
 The stench of blood makes sick the heav'ns;
 Ghosts glut the throat of hell!
 O what have kings to answer forBefore that awful throne;
 When thousand deaths for vengeance cry,
 And ghosts accusing groan!
 Like blazing comets in the skyThat shake the stars of light,
 Which drop like fruit unto the earth
 Thro' the fierce burning night;
 Like these did Gwin and Gordred 
      meet,And the first blow decides;
 Down from the brow unto the breast
 Gordred his head divides!
 Gwin fell: the sons of Norway 
      fled,All that remain'd alive;
 The rest did fill the vale of death,
 For them the eagles strive.
 The river Dorman roll'd their 
      bloodInto the northern sea;
 Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'd
 The pleasant south country.
 Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven 
      wideScatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,
 In lucent words my darkling verses dight,
 And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
 That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,
 All while the jocund hours in thy train
 Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;
 And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,
 Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
 For brutish Pan in vain might 
      thee assayWith tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,
 Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,
 (For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse
 And love of Folly needs none other's curse)
 Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,
 For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse
 To sit in council with his modern peers,
 And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse.
 And thou, Mercurius, that with 
      wingèd browDost mount aloft into the yielding sky,
 And thro' Heav'n's halls thy airy flight dost throw,
 Entering with holy feet to where on high
 Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;
 Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go
 Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,
 And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:
 If thou arrivest at the sandy 
      shoreWhere nought but envious hissing adders dwell,
 Thy golden rod, thrown on the dusty floor,
 Can charm to harmony with potent spell.
 Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel
 Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore;
 And cause in sweet society to dwell
 Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell
 O Mercury, assist my lab'ring 
      senseThat round the circle of the world would fly,
 As the wing'd eagle scorns the tow'ry fence
 Of Alpine hills round his high aëry,
 And searches thro' the corners of the sky,
 Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound,
 And see the wingèd lightnings as they fly;
 Then, bosom'd in an amber cloud, around
 Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.
 And thou, O warrior maid 
      invincible,Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove,
 Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,
 Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,
 In solemn gloom of branches interwove?
 Or bear'st thy AEgis o'er the burning field,
 Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?
 Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld
 The weary wanderer thro' the desert rove?
 Or does th' afflicted man thy heav'nly bosom move?
 Blind Man's BuffWhen silver snow decks Susan's 
      clothes,And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose,
 The blushing bank is all my care,
 With hearth so red, and walls so fair;
 `Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher,
 The oaken log lay on the fire.'
 The well-wash'd stools, a circling row,
 With lad and lass, how fair the show!
 The merry can of nut-brown ale,
 The laughing jest, the love-sick tale,
 Till, tir'd of chat, the game begins.
 The lasses prick the lads with pins;
 Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool,
 She, falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool!
 She blush'd so red, with sidelong glance
 At hob-nail Dick, who griev'd the chance.
 But now for Blind man's Buff they call;
 Of each encumbrance clear the hall--
 Jenny her silken 'kerchief folds,
 And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds.
 Now laughing stops, with `Silence! hush!'
 And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push.
 The Blind man's arms, extended wide,
 Sam slips between:--`O woe betide
 Thee, clumsy Will!'--but titt'ring Kate
 Is penn'd up in the corner straight!
 And now Will's eyes beheld the play;
 He thought his face was t'other way.
 `Now, Kitty, now! what chance hast thou,
 Roger so near thee!--Trips, I vow!'
 She catches him--then Roger ties
 His own head up--but not his eyes;
 For thro' the slender cloth he sees,
 And runs at Sam, who slips with ease
 His clumsy hold; and, dodging round,
 Sukey is tumbled on the ground!--
 `See what it is to play unfair!
 Where cheating is, there's mischief there.'
 But Roger still pursues the chase,--
 `He sees! he sees!' cries, softly, Grace;
 `O Roger, thou, unskill'd in art,
 Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part!'
 Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rimes,
 And Roger turns him round three times,
 Then pauses ere he starts--but Dick
 Was mischief bent upon a trick;
 Down on his hands and knees he lay
 Directly in the Blind man's way,
 Then cries out `Hem!' Hodge heard, and ran
 With hood-wink'd chance--sure of his man;
 But down he came. -- Alas, how frail
 Our best of hopes, how soon they fail!
 With crimson drops he stains the ground;
 Confusion startles all around.
 Poor piteous Dick supports his head,
 And fain would cure the hurt he made.
 But Kitty hasted with a key,
 And down his back they straight convey
 The cold relief; the blood is stay'd,
 And Hodge again holds up his head.
 Such are the fortunes of the game,
 And those who play should stop the same
 By wholesome laws; such as all those
 Who on the blinded man impose
 Stand in his stead; as, long a-gone,
 When men were first a nation grown,
 Lawless they liv'd, till wantonness
 And liberty began t' increase,
 And one man lay in another's way;
 Then laws were made to keep fair play.
 PERSONS 
        
          | King Edward | The Black Prince | Queen Philippa |  
          | Duke of Clarence | Sir John Chandos | Sir Thomas Dagworth |  
          | Sir Walter Manny | Lord Audley | Lord Percy |  
          | Bishop William, |  | Peter Blunt, |  
          | Dagworth's man |  | a common soldier |  Scene: The Coast of France. 
      King Edward and Nobles before it. The Army.  King. 
      O thou, to whose fury the nations areBut as dust, maintain thy servant's right!
 Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear,
 And forgèd helm, and shield of seven-times beaten brass,
 Are idle trophies of the vanquisher.
 When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame,
 When the cries of blood tear horror from heav'n,
 And yelling Death runs up and down the ranks,
 Let Liberty, the charter'd right of Englishmen,
 Won by our fathers in many a glorious field,
 Enerve my soldiers; let Liberty
 Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle.
 The enemy fight in chains, invisible chains, but heavy;
 Their minds are fetter'd, then how can they be free?
 While, like the mounting flame,
 We spring to battle o'er the floods of death!
 And these fair youths, the flow'r of England,
 Venturing their lives in my most righteous cause,
 O sheathe their hearts with triple steel, that they
 May emulate their fathers' virtues.
 And thou, my son, be strong; thou fightest for a crown
 That death can never ravish from thy brow,
 A crown of glory -- but from thy very dust
 Shall beam a radiance, to fire the breasts
 Of youth unborn! Our names are written equal
 In fame's wide-trophied hall; 'tis ours to gild
 The letters, and to make them shine with gold
 That never tarnishes: whether Third Edward,
 Or the Prince of Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer,
 Or ev'n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest fame,
 Is in His hand to whom all men are equal.
 The world of men are like the num'rous stars
 That beam and twinkle in the depth of night,
 Each clad in glory according to his sphere;
 But we, that wander from our native seats
 And beam forth lustre on a darkling world,
 Grow larger as we advance: and some, perhaps
 The most obscure at home, that scarce were seen
 To twinkle in their sphere, may so advance
 That the astonish'd world, with upturn'd eyes,
 Regardless of the moon, and those that once were bright,
 Stand only for to gaze upon their splendour.
 [He here knights the Prince, and other young Nobles.
 Now let us take a just revenge for those
 Brave Lords, who fell beneath the bloody axe
 At Paris. Thanks, noble Harcourt, for 'twas
 By your advice we landed here in Brittany,
 A country not yet sown with destruction,
 And where the fiery whirlwind of swift war
 Has not yet swept its desolating wing.--
 Into three parties we divide by day,
 And separate march, but join again at night;
 Each knows his rank, and Heav'n marshal all. [Exeunt.
 Scene: English Court. Lionel, 
      Duke of Clarence; Queen Philippa; Lords;Bishop, &c
    Clarence. My Lords, I 
      have by the advice of herWhom I am doubly bound to obey, my Parent
 And my Sovereign, call'd you together.
 My task is great, my burden heavier than
 My unfledg'd years;
 Yet, with your kind assistance, Lords, I hope
 England shall dwell in peace; that, while my father
 Toils in his wars, and turns his eyes on this
 His native shore, and sees commerce fly round
 With his white wings, and sees his golden London
 And her silver Thames, throng'd with shining spires
 And corded ships, her merchants buzzing round
 Like summer bees, and all the golden cities
 In his land overflowing with honey,
 Glory may not be dimm'd with clouds of care.
 Say, Lords, should not our thoughts be first to commerce?
 My Lord Bishop, you would recommend us agriculture?
 Bishop. Sweet Prince, the arts of peace are great,
 And no less glorious than those of war,
 Perhaps more glorious in the philosophic mind.
 When I sit at my home, a private man,
 My thoughts are on my gardens and my fields,
 How to employ the hand that lacketh bread.
 If Industry is in my diocese,
 Religion will flourish; each man's heart
 Is cultivated and will bring forth fruit:
 This is my private duty and my pleasure.
 But, as I sit in council with my Prince,
 My thoughts take in the gen'ral good of the whole,
 And England is the land favour'd by Commerce;
 For Commerce, tho' the child of Agriculture,
 Fosters his parent, who else must sweat and toil,
 And gain but scanty fare. Then, my dear Lord,
 Be England's trade our care; and we, as tradesmen,
 Looking to the gain of this our native land.
 Clar. O my good Lord, true wisdom drops like honey
 From your tongue, as from a worshipp'd oak.
 Forgive, my Lords, my talkative youth, that speaks
 Not merely what my narrow observation has
 Pick'd up, but what I have concluded from your lessons.
 Now, by the Queen's advice, I ask your leave
 To dine to-morrow with the Mayor of London:
 If I obtain your leave, I have another boon
 To ask, which is the favour of your company.
 I fear Lord Percy will not give me leave.
 Percy. Dear Sir, a prince should always keep his state,
 And grant his favours with a sparing hand,
 Or they are never rightly valuèd.
 These are my thoughts; yet it were best to go
 But keep a proper dignity, for now
 You represent the sacred person of
 Your father; 'tis with princes as 'tis with the sun;
 If not sometimes o'er-clouded, we grow weary
 Of his officious glory.
 Clar. Then you will give me leave to shine sometimes,
 My Lord?
 Lord. Thou hast a gallant spirit, which I fear
 Will be imposèd on by the closer sort. [Aside
 Clar. Well, I'll endeavour to take
 Lord Percy's advice; I have been usèd so much
 To dignity that I'm sick on 't.
 Queen Phil. Fie, fie, Lord Clarence! you proceed not to 
      business,
 But speak of your own pleasures.
 I hope their Lordships will excuse your giddiness.
 Clar. My Lords, the French have fitted out many
 Small ships of war, that, like to ravening wolves,
 Infest our English seas, devouring all
 Our burden'd vessels, spoiling our naval flocks.
 The merchants do complain and beg our aid.
 Percy. The merchants are rich enough,
 Can they not help themselves?
 Bish. They can, and may; but how to gain their will
 Requires our countenance and help.
 Percy. When that they find they must, my Lord, they will:
 Let them but suffer awhile, and you shall see
 They will bestir themselves.
 Bish. Lord Percy cannot mean that we should suffer
 This disgrace: if so, we are not sovereigns
 Of the sea -- our right, that Heaven gave
 To England, when at the birth of nature
 She was seated in the deep; the Ocean ceas'd
 His mighty roar, and fawning play'd around
 Her snowy feet, and own'd his awful Queen.
 Lord Percy, if the heart is sick, the head
 Must be aggriev'd; if but one member suffer,
 The heart doth fail. You say, my Lord, the merchants
 Can, if they will, defend themselves against
 These rovers: this is a noble scheme,
 Worthy the brave Lord Percy, and as worthy
 His generous aid to put it into practice.
 Percy. Lord Bishop, what was rash in me is wise
 In you; I dare not own the plan. 'Tis not
 Mine. Yet will I, if you please,Quickly to the Lord Mayor, and work him onward
 To this most glorious voyage; on which cast
 I'll set my whole estate,
 But we will bring these Gallic rovers under.
 Queen Phil. Thanks, brave Lord Percy; you have the thanks
 Of England's Queen, and will, ere long, of England. [Exeunt
 Scene. At Cressy. Sir Thomas 
      Dagworth and Lord Audley meeting.     Audley. Good morrow, 
      brave Sir Thomas; the bright mornSmiles on our army, and the gallant sun
 Springs from the hills like a young hero
 Into the battle, shaking his golden locks
 Exultingly: this is a promising day.
 Dagworth. Why, my Lord Audley, I don't know.
 Give me your hand, and now I'll tell you what
 I think you do not know. Edward's afraid of Philip.
 Audley. Ha! Ha! Sir Thomas! you but joke;
 Did you e'er see him fear? At Blanchetaque,
 When almost singly he drove six thousand
 French from the ford, did he fear then?
 Dagw. Yes, fear -- that made him fight so.
 Aud. By the same reason I might say tis fear
 That makes you fight.
 Dagw. Mayhap you may: look upon Edward's face,
 No one can say he fears; but when he turns
 His back, then I will say it to his face;
 He is afraid: he makes us all afraid.
 I cannot bear the enemy at my back.
 Now here we are at Cressy; where to-morrow,
 To-morrow we shall know. I say, Lord Audley,
 That Edward runs away from Philip.
 Aud. Perhaps you think the Prince too is afraid?
 Dagw. No; God forbid! I'm sure he is not.
 He is a young lion. O! I have seen him fight
 And give command, and lightning has flashèd
 From his eyes across the field: I have seen him
 Shake hands with death, and strike a bargain for
 The enemy; he has danc'd in the field
 Of battle, like the youth at morris-play.
 I'm sure he's not afraid, nor Warwick, nor none--
 None of us but me, and I am very much afraid.
 Aud. Are you afraid too, Sir Thomas?
 I believe that as much as I believe
 The King's afraid: but what are you afraid of?
 Dagw. Of having my back laid open; we turn
 Our backs to the fire, till we shall burn our skirts.
 Aud. And this, Sir Thomas, you call fear? Your fear
 Is of a different kind then from the King's;
 He fears to turn his face, and you to turn your back.
 I do not think, Sir Thomas, you know what fear is.
 Enter Sir John 
      Chandos.    Chand. Good morrow, 
      Generals; I give you joy:Welcome to the fields of Cressy. Here we stop,
 And wait for Philip.
 Dagw. I hope so.
 Aud. There, Sir Thomas, do you call that fear?
 Dagw. I don't know; perhaps he takes it by fits.
 Why, noble Chandos, look you here--
 One rotten sheep spoils the whole flock;
 And if the bell-wether is tainted, I wish
 The Prince may not catch the distemper too.
 Chand. Distemper, Sir Thomas! what distemper?
 I have not heard.
 Dagw. Why, Chandos, you are a wise man,
 I know you understand me; a distemper
 The King caught here in France of running away.
 Aud. Sir Thomas, you say you have caught it too.
 Dagw. And so will the whole army; 'tis very catching,
 For, when the coward runs, the brave man totters.
 Perhaps the air of the country is the cause.
 I feel it coming upon me, so I strive against it;
 You yet are whole; but, after a few more
 Retreats, we all shall know how to retreat
 Better than fight. -- To be plain, I think retreating
 Too often takes away a soldier's courage.
 Chand. Here comes the King himself: tell him your thoughts
 Plainly, Sir Thomas.
 Dagw. I've told him before, but his disorder
 Makes him deaf.
 Enter King Edward 
      and Black Prince.    King. Good morrow, 
      Generals; when English courage failsDown goes our right to France.
 But we are conquerors everywhere; nothing
 Can stand our soldiers; each man is worthy
 Of a triumph. Such an army of heroes
 Ne'er shouted to the Heav'ns, nor shook the field.
 Edward, my son, thou art
 Most happy, having such command: the man
 Were base who were not fir'd to deeds
 Above heroic, having such examples.
 Prince. Sire, with respect and deference I look
 Upon such noble souls, and wish myself
 Worthy the high command that Heaven and you
 Have given me. When I have seen the field glow,
 And in each countenance the soul of war
 Curb'd by the manliest reason, I have been wing'd
 With certain victory; and 'tis my boast,
 And shall be still my glory, I was inspir'd
 By these brave troops.
 Dagw. Your Grace had better make
 Them all generals.
 King. Sir Thomas Dagworth, you must have your joke,
 And shall, while you can fight as you did at
 The Ford.
 Dagw. I have a small petition to your Majesty.
 King. What can Sir Thomas Dagworth ask that Edward
 Can refuse?
 Dagw. I hope your Majesty cannot refuse so great
 A trifle; I've gilt your cause with my best blood,
 And would again, were I not forbid
 By him whom I am bound to obey: my hands
 Are tièd up, my courage shrunk and wither'd,
 My sinews slacken'd, and my voice scarce heard;
 Therefore I beg I may return to England.
 King. I know not what you could have ask'd, Sir Thomas,
 That I would not have sooner parted with
 Than such a soldier as you have been, and such a friend:
 Nay, I will know the most remote particulars
 Of this your strange petition: that, if I can,
 I still may keep you here.
 Dagw. Here on the fields of Cressy we are settled
 Till Philip springs the tim'rous covey again.
 The wolf is hunted down by causeless fear;
 The lion flees, and fear usurps his heart,
 Startled, astonish'd at the clam'rous cock;
 The eagle, that doth gaze upon the sun,
 Fears the small fire that plays about the fen.
 If, at this moment of their idle fear,
 The dog doth seize the wolf, the forester the lion,
 The negro in the crevice of the rock
 Doth seize the soaring eagle; undone by flight,
 They tame submit: such the effect flight has
 On noble souls. Now hear its opposite:
 The tim'rous stag starts from the thicket wild,
 The fearful crane springs from the splashy fen,
 The shining snake glides o'er the bending grass;
 The stag turns head and bays the crying hounds,
 The crane o'ertaken fighteth with the hawk,
 The snake doth turn, and bite the padding foot.
 And if your Majesty's afraid of Philip,
 You are more like a lion than a crane:
 Therefore I beg I may return to England.
 King. Sir Thomas, now I understand your mirth,
 Which often plays with Wisdom for its pastime,
 And brings good counsel from the breast of laughter.
 I hope you'll stay, and see us fight this battle,
 And reap rich harvest in the fields of Cressy;
 Then go to England, tell them how we fight,
 And set all hearts on fire to be with us.
 Philip is plum'd, and  thinks we flee from him,
 Else he would never dare to attack us. Now,
 Now the quarry's set! and Death doth sport
 In the bright sunshine of this fatal day.
 Dagw. Now my heart dances, and I am as light
 As the young bridegroom going to be marrièd.
 Now must I to my soldiers, get them ready,
 Furbish our armours bright, new-plume our helms;
 And we will sing like the young housewives busièd
 In the dairy: my feet are wing'd, but not
 For flight, an please your grace.
 King. If all my soldiers are as pleas'd as you,
 'Twill be a gallant thing to fight or die;
 Then I can never be afraid of Philip.
 Dagw. A raw-bon'd fellow t'other day pass'd by me;
 I told him to put off his hungry looks --
 He answer'd me, `I hunger for another battle.'
 I saw a little Welshman with a fiery face;
 I told him he look'd like a candle half
 Burn'd out; he answer'd, he was `pig enough
 To light another pattle.' Last night, beneath
 The moon I walk'd abroad, when all had pitch'd
 Their tents, and all were still;
 I heard a blooming youth singing a song
 He had compos'd, and at each pause he wip'd
 His dropping eyes. The ditty was `If he
 Return'd victorious, he should wed a maiden
 Fairer than snow, and rich as midsummer.'
 Another wept, and wish'd health to his father.
 I chid them both, but gave them noble hopes
 These are the minds that glory in the battle,
 And leap and dance to hear the trumpet sound.
 King. Sir Thomas Dagworth, be thou near our person;
 Thy heart is richer than the vales of France:
 I will not part with such a man as thee.
 If Philip came arm'd in the ribs of death,
 And shook his mortal dart against my head,
 Thou'dst laugh his fury into nerveless shame!
 Go now, for thou art suited to the work,
 Throughout the camp; inflame the timorous,
 Blow up the sluggish into ardour, and
 Confirm the strong with strength, the weak inspire,
 And wing their brows with hope and expectation:
 Then to our tent return, and meet to council. [Exit Dagworth
 Chand. That man's a hero in his closet, and more
 A hero to the servants of his house
 Than to the gaping world; he carries windows
 In that enlargèd breast of his, that all
 May see what's done within.
 Prince. He is a genuine Englishman, my Chandos,
 And hath the spirit of Liberty within him.
 Forgive my prejudice, Sir John; I think
 My Englishmen the bravest people on
 The face of the earth.
 Chand. Courage, my Lord, proceeds from self-dependence.
 Teach man to think he's a free agent,
 Give but a slave his liberty, he'll shake
 Off sloth, and build himself a hut, and hedge
 A spot of ground; this he'll defend; 'tis his
 By right of Nature: thus set in action,
 He will still move onward to plan conveniences,
 Till glory fires his breast to enlarge his castle;
 While the poor slave drudges all day, in hope
 To rest at night.
 King. O Liberty, how glorious art thou!
 I see thee hov'ring o'er my army, with
 Thy wide-stretch'd plumes; I see thee
 Lead them on to battle;
 I see thee blow thy golden trumpet, while
 Thy sons shout the strong shout of victory!
 O noble Chandos, think thyself a gardener,
 My son a vine, which I commit unto
 Thy care: prune all extravagant shoots, and guide
 Th' ambitious tendrils in the paths of wisdom;
 Water him with thy advice; and Heav'n
 Rain fresh'ning dew upon his branches! And,
 O Edward, my dear son! learn to think lowly of
 Thyself, as we may all each prefer other--
 'Tis the best policy, and 'tis our duty. [Exit King Edward.
 Prince. And may our duty, Chandos, be our pleasure.
 Now we are alone, Sir John, I will unburden,
 And breathe my hopes into the burning air,
 Where thousand Deaths are posting up and down,
 Commission'd to this fatal field of Cressy.
 Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers,
 And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit
 Each shining helm, and string each stubborn bow,
 And dance to the neighing of our steeds.
 Methinks the shout begins, the battle burns;
 Methinks I see them perch on English crests,
 And roar the wild flame of fierce war upon
 The throngèd enemy! In truth I am too full
 It is my sin to love the noise of war.
 Chandos, thou seest my weakness; strong Nature
 Will bend or break us: my blood, like a springtide
 Does rise so high to overflow all bounds
 Of moderation; while Reason, in her
 Frail bark, can see no shore or bound for vast
 Ambition. Come, take the helm, my Chandos,
 That my full-blown sails overset me not
 In the wild tempest: condemn my venturous youth,
 That plays with danger, as the innocent child
 Unthinking plays upon the viper's den:
 I am a coward in my reason, Chandos.
 Chand. You are a man, my Prince, and a brave man,
 If I can judge of actions; but your heat
 Is the effect of youth, and want of use:
 Use makes the armèd field and noisy war
 Pass over as a summer cloud, unregarded,
 Or but expected as a thing of course.
 Age is contemplative; each rolling year
 Brings forth fruit to the mind's treasure-house:
 While vacant youth doth crave and seek about
 Within itself, and findeth discontent,
 Then, tir'd of thought, impatient takes the wing,
 Seizes the fruits of time, attacks experience,
 Roams round vast Nature's forest, where no bounds
 Are set, the swiftest may have room, the strongest
 Find prey; till tired at length, sated and tired
 With the changing sameness, old variety,
 We sit us down, and view our former joys
 With distaste and dislike.
 Prince. Then, if we must tug for experience,
 Let us not fear to beat round Nature's wilds,
 And rouse the strongest prey: then, if we fall,
 We fall with glory. I know the wolf
 Is dangerous to fight, not good for food,
 Nor is the hide a comely vestment; so
 We have our battle for our pains. I know
 That youth has need of age to point fit prey,
 And oft the stander-by shall steal the fruit
 Of th' other's labour. This is philosophy;
 These are the tricks of the world; but the pure soul
 Shall mount on native wings, disdaining
 Little sport, and cut a path into the heaven of glory,
 Leaving a track of light for men to wonder at.
 I'm glad my father does not hear me talk;
 You can find friendly excuses for me, Chandos.
 But do you not think, Sir John, that if it please
 Th' Almighty to stretch out my span of life,
 I shall with pleasure view a glorious action
 Which my youth master'd?
 Chand. Considerate age, my Lord, views motives,
 And not acts; when neither warbling voice
 Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits
 With trembling age, the voice of Conscience then,
 Sweeter than music in a summer's eve,
 Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep
 Sweet symphony to feather'd angels, sitting
 As guardians round your chair; then shall the pulse
 Beat slow, and taste and touch and sight and sound and smell,
 That sing and dance round Reason's fine-wrought throne
 Shall flee away, and leave them all forlorn;
 Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend. [Exeunt.
 Scene. In Thomas Dagworth's 
      Tent. Dagworth, and William his Man.      Dagw. Bring hither my armour, 
      William. Ambition is the growth of ev'ry clime.
 Will. Does it grow in England, sir?
 Dagw. Aye, it grows most in lands most cultivated.
 Will. Then it grows most in France; the vines here are finer than
 any we have in England.
 Dagw. Aye, but the oaks are not.
 Will. What is the tree you mentioned? I don't think I ever saw 
      it.
 Dagw. Ambition.
 Will. Is it a little creeping root that grows in ditches?
 Dagw. Thou dost not understand me, William.
 It is a root that grows in every breast;
 Ambition is the desire or passion that one man
 Has to get before another, in any pursuit after glory;
 But I don't think you have any of it.
 Will. Yes, I have; I have a great ambition to know every thing, 
      Sir.
 Dagw. But when our first ideas are wrong, what follows must all be 
      wrong, of course; 'tis best to know a little, and to know that little 
      aright.
 Will. Then, Sir, I should be glad to know if it was not ambition 
      that brought over our King to France to fight for his right?
 Dagw. Tho' the knowledge of that will not profit thee much, yet I 
      will tell you that it was ambition.
 Will. Then, if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in coming with 
      him, and in fighting for him.
 Dagw. Now, William, thou dost thrust the question home; but I must 
      tell you that, guilt being an act of the mind, none are guilty but those 
      whose minds are prompted by that same ambition.
 Will. Now, I always thought that a man might be guilty of doing 
      wrong without knowing it was wrong.
 Dagw. Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowest truth by 
      instinct, while reason runs aground, as we have run our argument. Only 
      remember, William, all have it in their power to know the motives of their 
      own actions, and 'tis a sin to act without some reason.
 Will. And whoever acts without reason may do a great deal of harm 
      without knowing it.
 Dagw. Thou art an endless moralist.
 Will. Now there's a story come into my head, that I will tell your 
      honour if you'll give me leave.
 Dagw. 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.Dagw. And who is this minstrel, Peter, dost know?
 Peter. O aye, 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.
 Dagw. 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.
 Dagw. Go, Peter, get you gone; flattery is delicious, even from 
      the lips of a babbler. [Exit Peter.
 Will. I never flatter your honour.
 Dagw. I don't know that.
 Will. Why, you know, Sir, when we were in England, at the 
      tournament at Windsor, and the Earl of Warwick was tumbled over, you ask'd 
      me if he did not look well when he fell; and I said no, he look'd very 
      foolish; and you was very angry with me for not flattering you.
 Dagw. 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 weepingOver the men that are to die to-day.
 Dagw. Why, brave Sir Walter, you or I may fall.
 Sir Walter. I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot,
 Cover'd with silence and forgetfulness. --
 Death wons in cities' smoke, and in still night,
 When men sleep in their beds, walketh about!
 How many in wallèd 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, cover'd with stones and deathy dust,
 Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk
 Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more!
 Yet death is terrible, tho' 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,
 Tho' 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.
 Dagw. 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 prepar'd 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 carcases;
 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!
 Dagw. 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, deckèd 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 lay stretch'd upon the field of death. [Exeunt.
 Scene. In the Camp. Several of 
      the Warriors meet at the King's Tent with a Minstrel, who sings the 
      following Song:  O sons of Trojan Brutus, cloth'd 
      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 rous'd by light'ning from their dens,
 Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires),
 Heated with war, fill'd with the blood of Greeks,
 With helmets hewn, and shields coverèd with gore,
 In navies black, broken with wind and tide:
 They landed in firm array upon 
      the rocksOf Albion; they kiss'd 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 pow'rs.'
 Our fathers swarm from the ships. 
      Giant voicesAre 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 parchèd heavens
 Rain fire into the molten raging sea.
 The smoking trees are strewn upon 
      the shore,Spoil'd of their verdure. O how oft have they
 Defy'd the storm that howlèd 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, inspir'd; our 
      fathers sitAttentive 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, tow'ring, 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.'
 O for a voice like thunder, and a 
      tongue To drown the throat of war! When the senses
 Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness,
 Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressèd
 Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand?
 When the whirlwind of fury comes from the
 Throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance
 Drive the nations together, who can stand?
 When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle,
 And sails rejoicing in the flood of Death;
 When souls are torn to everlasting fire,
 And fiends of Hell rejoice upon the slain,
 O who can stand? O who hath causèd this?
 O who can answer at the throne of God?
 The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it!
 Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!
 Justice hath heaved a sword to 
      plunge in Albion's breast; for Albion's sins are crimson dy'd, and the red 
      scourge follows her desolate sins. Then Patriot rose; full oft did 
      Patriot rise, when Tyranny hath stain'd fair Albion's breast with her own 
      children's gore. Round his majestic feet deep thunders roll; each heart 
      does tremble, and each knee grows slack. The stars of heaven tremble; the 
      roaring voice of war, the trumpet, calls to battle. Brother in brother's 
      blood must bathe -- rivers of death. O land most hapless! O beauteous 
      island, how forsaken! Weep from thy silver fountains, weep from thy gentle 
      rivers! The angel of the island weeps. Thy widowed virgins weep beneath 
      thy shades. Thy aged fathers gird themselves for war. The sucking infant 
      lives to die in battle; the weeping mother feeds him for the slaughter. 
      The husbandman doth leave his bending harvest. Blood cries afar! The land 
      doth sow itself! The glittering youth of courts must gleam in arms. The 
      aged senators their ancient swords assume. The trembling sinews of old age 
      must work the work of death against their progeny; for Tyranny hath 
      stretch'd his purple arm, and `Blood!' he cries; `the chariots and the 
      horses, the noise of shout, and dreadful thunder of the battle heard 
      afar!' Beware, O proud! thou shalt be humbled; thy cruel brow, thine iron 
      heart, is smitten, though lingering Fate is slow. O yet may Albion smile 
      again, and stretch her peaceful arms, and raise her golden head 
      exultingly! Her citizens shall throng about her gates, her mariners shall 
      sing upon the sea, and myriads shall to her temples crowd! Her sons shall 
      joy as in the morning! Her daughters sing as to the rising year! 
       Prepare, prepare the iron helm of 
      war,Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
 Th' Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
 And casts them out upon the darken'd earth!
 Prepare, prepare!
 Prepare your hearts for Death's 
      cold hand! prepareYour souls for flight, your bodies for the earth;
 Prepare your arms for glorious victory;
 Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!
 Prepare, prepare!
 Whose fatal scroll is that? 
      Methinks 'tis mine!Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue?
 Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause,
 And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field.
 Prepare, prepare!
 The arrows of Almighty God are 
      drawn!Angels of Death stand in the louring heavens!
 Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light,
 And walk together on the clouds of heaven!
 Prepare, prepare!
 Soldiers, prepare! Our cause is 
      Heaven's cause;Soldiers, prepare! Be worthy of our cause:
 Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky:
 Prepare, O troops, that are to fall to-day!
 Prepare, prepare!
 Alfred shall smile, and make his 
      harp rejoice;The Norman William, and the learnèd Clerk,
 And Lion Heart, and black-brow'd Edward, with
 His loyal queen, shall rise, and welcome us!
 Prepare, prepare!
 The veiled Evening walked 
      solitary down the western hills, and Silence reposed in the valley; the 
      birds of day were heard in their nests, rustling in brakes and thickets; 
      and the owl and bat flew round the darkening trees: all is silent when 
      Nature takes her repose. -- In former times, on such an evening, when the 
      cold clay breathed with life, and our ancestors, who now sleep in their 
      graves, walked on the steadfast globe, the remains of a family of the 
      tribes of Earth, a mother and a sister, were gathered to the sick bed of a 
      youth. Sorrow linked them together; leaning on one another's necks 
      alternately  -- like lilies dropping tears in each other's bosom -- 
      they stood by the bed like reeds bending over a lake, when the evening 
      drops trickle down. His voice was low as the whisperings of the woods when 
      the wind is asleep, and the visions of Heaven unfold their visitation. 
      `Parting is hard and death is terrible; I seem to walk through a deep 
      valley, far from the light of day, alone and comfortless! The damps of 
      death fall thick upon me! Horrors stare me in the face! I look behind, 
      there is no returning; Death follows after me; I walk in regions of Death, 
      where no tree is, without a lantern to direct my steps, without a staff to 
      support me.' Thus he laments through the still evening, till the curtains 
      of darkness were drawn. Like the sound of a broken pipe, the aged woman 
      raised her voice. `O my son, my son, I know but little of the path thou goest! But lo! there is a God, who made the world; stretch out thy hand to 
      Him.' The youth replied, like a voice heard from a sepulchre, `My hand is 
      feeble, how should I stretch it out? My ways are sinful, how should I 
      raise mine eyes? My voice hath used deceit, how should I call on Him who 
      is Truth? My breath is loathsome, how should He not be offended? If I lay 
      my face in the dust, the grave opens its mouth for me; if I lift up my 
      head, sin covers me as a cloak. O my dear friends, pray ye for me! Stretch 
      forth your hands that my Helper may come! Through the void space I walk, 
      between the sinful world and eternity! Beneath me burns eternal fire! O 
      for a hand to pluck me forth!' As the voice of an omen heard in the silent 
      valley, when the few inhabitants cling trembling together; as the voice of 
      the Angel of Death, when the thin beams of the moon give a faint light, 
      such was this young man's voice to his friends. Like the bubbling waters 
      of the brook in the dead of night, the aged woman raised her cry, and 
      said, `O Voice, that dwellest in my breast, can I not cry, and lift my 
      eyes to Heaven? Thinking of this, my spirit is turned within me into 
      confusion! O my child, my child, is thy breath infected? so is mine. As 
      the deer wounded, by the brooks of water, so the arrows of sin stick in my 
      flesh; the poison hath entered into my marrow.' Like rolling waves upon a 
      desert shore, sighs succeeded sighs; they covered their faces and wept. 
      The youth lay silent, his mother's arm was under his head; he was like a 
      cloud tossed by the winds, till the sun shine, and the drops of rain 
      glisten, the yellow harvest breathes, and the thankful eyes of the 
      villagers are turned up in smiles. The traveller, that hath taken shelter 
      under an oak, eyes the distant country with joy. Such smiles were seen 
      upon the face of the youth: a visionary hand wiped away his tears, and a 
      ray of light beamed around his head. All was still. The moon hung not out 
      her lamp, and the stars faintly glimmered in the summer sky; the breath of 
      night slept among the leaves of the forest; the bosom of the lofty hill 
      drank in the silent dew, while on his majestic brow the voice of Angels is 
      heard, and stringed sounds ride upon the wings of night. The sorrowful 
      pair lift up their heads, hovering Angels are around them, voices of 
      comfort are heard over the Couch of Death, and the youth breathes out his 
      soul with joy into eternity.  Who is this, that with unerring 
      step dares tempt the wilds, where only Nature's foot hath trod? 'Tis 
      Contemplation, daughter of the grey Morning! Majestical she steppeth, and 
      with her pure quill on every flower writeth Wisdom's name; now lowly 
      bending, whispers in mine ear, `O man, how great, how little, thou! O man, 
      slave of each moment, lord of eternity! seest thou where Mirth sits on the 
      painted cheek? doth it not seem ashamed of such a place, and grow 
      immoderate to brave it out? O what an humble garb true Joy puts on! Those 
      who want Happiness must stoop to find it; it is a flower that grows in 
      every vale. Vain foolish man, that roams on lofty rocks, where, 'cause his 
      garments are swollen with wind, he fancies he is grown into a giant! 
      Lo, then, Humility, take it, and wear it in thine heart; lord of thyself, 
      thou then art lord of all. Clamour brawls along the streets, and 
      destruction hovers in the city's smoke; but on these plains, and in these 
      silent woods, true joys descend: here build thy nest; here fix thy staff; 
      delights blossom around; numberless beauties blow; the green grass springs 
      in joy, and the nimble air kisses the leaves; the brook stretches its arms 
      along the velvet meadow, its silver inhabitants sport and play; the 
      youthful sun joys like a hunter roused to the chase, he rushes up the sky, 
      and lays hold on the immortal coursers of day; the sky glitters with the 
      jingling trappings. Like a triumph, season follows season, while the airy 
      music fills the world with joyful sounds.' I answered, `Heavenly goddess! 
      I am wrapped in mortality, my flesh is a prison, my bones the bars of 
      death; Misery builds over our cottage roofs, and Discontent runs like a 
      brook. Even in childhood, Sorrow slept with me in my cradle; he followed 
      me up and down in the house when I grew up; he was my schoolfellow: thus 
      he was in my steps and in my play till he became to me as my brother. I 
      walked through dreary places with him, and in church-yards; and I oft 
      found myself sitting by Sorrow on a tomb-stone.'  Samson, the strongest of the 
      children of men, I sing; how he was foiled by woman's arts, by a false 
      wife brought to the gates of death! O Truth! that shinest with propitious 
      beams, turning our earthly night to heavenly day, from presence of the 
      Almighty Father, thou visitest our darkling world with blessed feet, 
      bringing good news of Sin and Death destroyed! O whiterobed Angel, guide 
      my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of 
      truth, that all who pass may read. -- Now Night, noontide of damned 
      spirits, over the silent earth spreads her pavilion, while in dark council 
      sat Philista's lords; and, where strength failed, black thoughts in ambush 
      lay. Their helmed youth and aged warriors in dust together lie, and 
      Desolation spreads his wings over the land of Palestine: from side to side 
      the land groans, her prowess lost, and seeks to hide her bruised head 
      under the mists of night, breeding dark plots. For Dalila's fair arts have 
      long been tried in vain; in vain she wept in many a treacherous tear. `Go 
      on, fair traitress; do thy guileful work; ere once again the changing moon 
      her circuit hath performed, thou shalt overcome, and conquer him by force 
      unconquerable, and wrest his secret from him. Call thine alluring arts and 
      honest-seeming brow, the holy kiss of love, and the transparent tear; put 
      on fair linen that with the lily vies, purple and silver; neglect thy 
      hair, to seem more lovely in thy loose attire; put on thy country's pride, 
      deceit, and eyes of love decked in mild sorrow; and sell thy lord for 
      gold.' For now, upon her sumptuous couch reclined in gorgeous pride, she 
      still entreats, and still she grasps his vigorous knees with her fair 
      arms. `Thou lov'st me not! thou'rt war, thou art not love! O foolish 
      Dalila! O weak woman! it is death clothed in flesh thou lovest, and thou 
      hast been encircled in his arms! Alas, my lord, what am I calling thee? 
      Thou art my God! To thee I pour my tears for sacrifice morning and 
      evening. My days are covered with sorrow, shut up, darkened! By night I am 
      deceived! Who says that thou wast born of mortal kind? Destruction was thy 
      father, a lioness suckled thee, thy young hands tore human limbs, and 
      gorged human flesh. Come hither, Death; art thou not Samson's servant? 'Tis 
      Dalila that calls, thy master's wife; no, stay, and let thy master do the 
      deed: one blow of that strong arm would ease my pain; then should I lay at 
      quiet and have rest. Pity forsook thee at thy birth! O Dagon furious, and 
      all ye gods of Palestine, withdraw your hand! I am but a weak woman. Alas, 
      I am wedded to your enemy! I will go mad, and tear my crisped hair;  I'll run about, and pierce the ears o' th' gods! O Samson, hold me not; 
      thou lovest me not! Look not upon me with those deathful eyes! Thou 
      wouldst my death, and death approaches fast.' Thus, in false tears, she 
      bath'd his feet, and thus she day by day oppressed his soul: he seemed a 
      mountain; his brow among the clouds; she seemed a silver stream, his feet 
      embracing. Dark thoughts rolled to and fro in his mind, like thunder 
      clouds troubling the sky; his visage was troubled; his soul was 
      distressed. `Though I should tell her all my heart, what can I fear? 
      Though I should tell this secret of my birth, the utmost may be warded off 
      as well when told as now.' She saw him moved, and thus resumes her wiles. 
      `Samson, I'm thine; do with me what thou wilt: my friends are enemies; my 
      life is death; I am a traitor to my nation, and despised; my joy is given 
      into the hands of him who hates me, using deceit to the wife of his bosom. 
      Thrice hast thou mocked me and grieved my soul. Didst thou not tell me 
      with green withs to bind thy nervous arms; and, after that, when I had 
      found thy falsehood, with new ropes to bind thee fast? I knew thou didst 
      but mock me. Alas, when in thy sleep I bound thee with them to try thy 
      truth, I cried, "The Philistines be upon thee, Samson!" Then did suspicion 
      wake thee; how didst thou rend the feeble ties! Thou fearest nought, what 
      shouldst thou fear? Thy power is more than mortal, none can hurt thee; thy 
      bones are brass, thy sinews are iron. Ten thousand spears are like the 
      summer grass; an army of mighty men are as flocks in the valleys; what 
      canst thou fear? I drink my tears like water; I live upon sorrow! O worse 
      than wolves and tigers, what canst thou give when such a trifle is denied 
      me? But O! at last thou mockest me, to shame my over-fond inquiry. Thou 
      toldest me to weave thee to the beam by thy strong hair; I did even that 
      to try thy truth; but, when I cried "The Philistines be upon thee!" then 
      didst thou leave me to bewail that Samson loved me not.' He sat, and 
      inward griev'd; he saw and lov'd the beauteous suppliant, nor could 
      conceal aught that might appease her; then, leaning on her bosom, thus he 
      spoke: `Hear, O Dalila! doubt no more of Samson's love; for that fair 
      breast was made the ivory palace of my inmost heart, where it shall lie at 
      rest: for sorrow is the lot of all of woman born: for care was I brought 
      forth, and labour is my lot: nor matchless might, nor wisdom, nor every 
      gift enjoyed, can from the heart of man hide sorrow. Twice was my birth 
      foretold from heaven, and twice a sacred vow enjoined me that I should 
      drink no wine, nor eat of any unclean thing; for holy unto Israel's God I 
      am, a Nazarite even from my mother's womb. Twice was it told, that it 
      might not be broken. "Grant me a son, kind Heaven," Manoa cried; but 
      Heaven refused. Childless he mourned, but thought his God knew best. In 
      solitude, though not obscure, in Israel he lived, till venerable age came 
      on: his flocks increased, and plenty crowned his board, beloved, revered 
      of man. But God hath other joys in store. Is burdened Israel his grief? 
      The son of his old age shall set it free! The venerable sweetener of his 
      life receives the promise first from Heaven. She saw the maidens play, and 
      blessed their innocent mirth; she blessed each new-joined pair; but from 
      her the long-wished deliverer shall spring. Pensive, alone she sat within 
      the house, when busy day was fading, and calm evening, time for 
      contemplation, rose from the forsaken east, and drew the curtains of 
      heaven: pensive she sat, and thought on Israel's grief, and silent prayed 
      to Israel's God; when lo! an angel from the fields of light entered the 
      house. His form was manhood in the prime, and from his spacious brow shot 
      terrors through the evening shade. But mild he hailed her, "Hail, highly 
      favoured!" said he; "for lo! thou shalt conceive, and bear a son, and 
      Israel's strength shall be upon his shoulders, and he shall be called 
      Israel's Deliverer. Now, therefore, drink no wine, and eat not any unclean 
      thing, for he shall be a Nazarite to God." Then, as a nei 727 ghbour, when 
      his evening tale is told, departs, his blessing leaving, so seemed he to 
      depart: she wondered with exceeding joy, nor knew he was an angel. Manoa 
      left his fields to sit in the house, and take his evening's rest from 
      labour -- the sweetest time that God has allotted mortal man. He sat, and 
      heard with joy, and praised God, who Israel still doth keep. The time 
      rolled on, and Israel groaned oppressed. The sword was bright, while the 
      ploughshare rusted, till hope grew feeble, and was ready to give place to 
      doubting. Then prayed Manoa: "O Lord, thy flock is scattered on the hills! 
      The wolf teareth them, Oppression stretches his rod over our land, our 
      country is ploughed with swords, and reaped in blood. The echoes of 
      slaughter reach from hill to hill. Instead of peaceful pipe the shepherd 
      bears a sword, the ox-goad is turned into a spear. O when shall our 
      Deliverer come? The Philistine riots on our flocks, our vintage is 
      gathered by bands of enemies. Stretch forth thy hand, and save!" Thus 
      prayed Manoa. The aged woman walked into the field, and lo! again the 
      angel came, clad as a traveller fresh risen on his journey. She ran and 
      called her husband, who came and talked with him. "O man of God," said he, 
      "thou comest from far! Let us detain thee while I make ready a kid, that 
      thou mayest sit and eat, and tell us of thy name and warfare; that, when 
      thy sayings come to pass, we may honour thee." The Angel answered, "My 
      name is Wonderful; inquire not after it, seeing it is a secret; but, if 
      thou wilt, offer an offering unto the Lord."'  
      
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