THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. FAIR stood the wind for France, Nor now to prove our chance But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Skirmishing day by day, With those that stopp'd his way, Which in his might of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending. Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. 1 This poem and the one which follows were, by the oversight of the Editor, omitted in preparing the first edition of this collection, and are therefore added here instead of appearing in their >roper places. And turning to his men, Yet have we well begun, Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. And for myself (quoth he), Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell, No less our skill is, Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led, With the main, Henry sped, Exeter had the rear, A braver man not there, O Lord, how hot they were, On the false Frenchmen! They now to fight are gone, To hear, was wonder; Well it their age became, When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Stuck the French horses With Spanish yew so strong, None from his fellow starts, And like true English hearts, When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, Not one was tardy. Arms were from shoulders sent, This while our noble King, And many a deep wound lent, Gloucester, that duke so good, With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Upon Saint Crispin's day To England to carry ; Or England breed again MICHAEL DRAYTON.' HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MON UMENT, APRIL 19, 1830. By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Here once the embattled farmers stood, The foe long since in silence slept ; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, That memory may their deed redeem, Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free. 1 MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Hartshull, Warwickshire, England, about the year 1593, and died in 1631. He was a mos': voluminous and generally uninteresting verse writer. His most extensive work was an endless description of England entitled the Polyolbion. That he was not, however, devoid of poetic fire and imagination is amply proved by this spirited ballad. |