And dying soldiers' groans, are only heard,
Horror in all her saddest shapes appear'd*.
But long the fury of a storm so strong
Could not endure, nor fortune waver long
In such a trial; but at last must show
Which way
her favours were decreed to go.
The English swords with slaughter reeking all
At last had carved in the Frenchmens' fall

Their

way to victory; who now apace

Are beaten down, and strew the purple place;
Where like their own pale fading lilies, lie
The flower of all the French nobility.
There Alençon, striving to cure in vain

The wound of France, is beaten down and slain.
There dies Majorca's King, who from his home
So far had sail'd to find a foreign tomb,
And dearly that alliance (which he thought
So safe to him) in this fierce battle bought.
Lewis, Earl of Flanders, that to Philip's state
Had been so constant a confederate,

Whom no conditions to King Edward's side
Could ever draw, on Edward's weapons died,
Sealing in blood his truth to France, to lie
A wailed part of her calamity.

There Savoy's Duke, the noble Amy, lay
Welt'ring in gore, arriv'd but yesterday

* Horror in all her saddest shapes appear'd.] Sir P. Sidney has a very sublime description of a field of battle: "And now the often -changing fortune began also to change the hue of the battels; for, at the first, though it were terrible, yet terror was decked so bravely with rich furniture, gilt swords, shining armours, pleasant pencils, that the eye with delight had scarce leisure to be afraid: but now all universally defiled with dust, broken armour, mangled bodies, took away the mask, and set forth Horror in his own horrible manner. Arcadia, B. III. 446.

At Philip's hapless camp, as short an aid
As Rhesus prov'd to falling Troy, betray'd
The first sad night, and by Tydides hand
Slain, ere his steeds had graz'd on Trojan land,
Or drunk at all of Xanthus' silver stream.
But most the warlike monarch of Boheme*,
Old Lewis fam'd, who on that honour'd ground
Chain'd to the foremost of his troops was found,
And charging at the head of all was slain.
His cold dead hand did yet that sword retain †

*But most the warlike monarch of Boheme, &c.] The circumstance of his valiant death, and the flight of his son, is thus mentioned by Holinshed: "The valiant King of Bohem, being almost blind, caused his men to fasten all the reins of the bridels of their horses ech to other, and so he being himselfe amongst them in the foremost ranke, they ran on their enemies. The Lord Charles of Boheme, sonne to the same king, and late elected emperour, came in good order to the battel; but when he saw how the matter went awrie on their part, he departed and saved himself. His father, by the means aforesaid, went so far forward, that, joining with his enemies, he fought right valiantlie, and so did all his companie: but finallie being entered within the prease of their enemies, they were of them inclosed and slaine, together with the king their master, and the next daie found dead, lieng about him, and their horses all tied ech to other." P. 372.

+ The attitude May has represented the brave old King as found in, is a very fine one:

His cold dead hand did yet that sword retain,

Which living erst it did so bravely wield.

One of the finest of the Marlborough gems, a copy of which collection was some short time since presented by the Duke to the Bodleian Library, is a dying Amazon; she is drawn as just falling from her horse, and supported by an attendant, in all the languor of death, but still grasping her bow in her right hand. In the very elegant explanation that accompanies the plate are these words: Penthesileam esse creditur: quæ licet spiritum ægrè trahens nondum tamen arcum e manu emisit. Gem 48. Some of the most remarkable and most striking beauties in poetry, painting, and statuary, are taken immediately from the agonies of death. Virgil has a circumstance in this way full of horrid minuteness, which is by some considered as a blemish, but surely too fastidiously:

Which living erst it did so bravely wield.

His hopeful son, young Charles, had left the field
When he perceiv'd that fortune quite was gone
To Edward's side, his father's blood alone
Was too too great a sacrifice to be
Bestow'd on France: whose dying valiancy
Made all men more desire his son to live,
And that the branch of such a tree might thrive.
There was the noble Bourbon, there Lorraine,
Aumall, Nevers, and valiant Harcourt, slain.

In vain had Philip now (whose princely soul
In all those deaths did bleed) strove to control
By highest valour what the Fates would do.
Wounds not in mind alone, but body too
(Unhorsed twice), did th' active King receive.
As much asham'd no blood at all to leave
In such a field, although enforc'd to part
Himself from thence; at last his struggling heart
Is to necessity content to yield,

And flies with speed from that unhappy field.
With whom the Frenchmen all the fight forsake,
And o'er the country flight disorder'd take.

By this had night her sable mantle spread
Upon the earth, by whose protection fled

Te decisa suum, Laride, dextera quærit
Semianimesque micant digiti ferrumque retractant.

En. x. 395.

The same poet, in describing the arms of Minerva, represents the Mo dusa on her breastplate as still rolling its eyes after the head is severed from the neck:

ipsamque in pectore Divæ

Gorgona, desecto vertentem lumina collo. Æn. viii. 437. For remarks on similar subjects, see Mr. Spence's most excellent Essay on the Odyssey, p. 44, 45.

The vanquish'd French with more security.
A most complete and glorious victory*
The English had obtain'd; yet would not now
Disrank themselves to chase the flying foe.
But in that field, which they alone possest,
Resolve to give their weary'd bodies rest,
Till morning's light display those wealthy spoils,
That must reward the conquering soldier's toils.

Now great King Edward from the Windmill Hill
Came down, where his untouch'd battalia still
Had stood, till all the fight below was done,
'And in his arms embrac'd his armed son,
Who now with blood and sweat was all distain'd;
Then gratulates his early honour gain'd

In such a field of danger, joy'd to see
His blooming years thus flush'd in victory.

Well did that day presage the future glory

And martial fame of this great prince, whose story

"The slaughter of the

*A most complete and glorious victory.] Frenchmen was great and lamentable, namelie for the losse of so manie nobleman, as were slaine at the same battell, fought between Cressie and Broy on the Saturdaie next following the feast of Saint Bartholomew, being (as that yeare fell) the 26th of August. Among others which died that daie, these I find registered by name as cheefest: John King of Boheme, Rafe Duke of Lorraine, Charles of Alanso, brother germane to King Philip, Charles Earle of Blois, Lewis Earl of Flanders, also the Earle of Harecourt, brother to the Lord Geoffrie of Harcourt; with the Earles of Aussere, Aumerle, and Saint Poule, besides diverse other of the nobilitie."

Holinshed's Chron. p. 372.

The number of the slain (according to Hume) was as follows: "On the day of battle, and on the ensuing, there fell, by a moderate computation, twelve hundred French knights, fourteen hundred gentlemen, four thousand men at arms, besides about thirty thousand of inferior rank." On the side of the English, he says, "there were killed in it only one esquire and three knights, and a very few of inferior rank."

With admiration after-times shall hear,

Like miracles his conquests shall appear

In France achiev'd; nor shall that kingtom bound
His sword's great deeds; whose fame shall further sound,
And royal trophies of Black Edward's praise

Beyond the Pyrenæan mountains raise.

Reigne of Edward III. by T. May,

B. III. Edit. 1635.

THE

SHEPHERD'S LIFE*.

THRICE, oh thrice happy shepherd's life and state,
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!
His cottage low, and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud fortune, with her scorns and fawns:
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep:

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride:

*These beautiful lines seem to have suggested the plan of a most exquisite little piece called The Hamlet, by Mr. T. Warton, which contains such a selection of beautiful rural images, as perhaps no other poem of equal length in our language presents us with. The latter part of it more closely reminds us of Fletcher. A shepherd's life is to be found in Spenser's Fairie Queene, B. VI. Cant. ix. stan. 20. See likewise J. Sylvester's translation of Du Bartas. Edit. 1641, p. 29, 30.