Chapter 3

This, this is he; softly a while; Let us not break in upon him. O change beyond report, thought, or belief! See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused With languished head unpropt, As one past hope, abandonËd, And by himself given over, In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds O'er-worn and soiled. Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he, That heroic, that renowned, Irresistible Samson? whom unarmed No strength of man or fiercest wild beast could withstand; Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid; Ran on embattled armies clad in iron, And, weaponless himself, Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery Of brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass, Chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mail AdamantÈan proof: But safest he who stood aloof, When insupportably his foot advanced, In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools, Spurned them to death by troops. The bold Ascalonite Fled from his lion ramp; old warriors turned Their plated backs under his heel, Or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust.

_Milton._

XVII

OUT OF ADVERSITY

O how comely it is, and how reviving To the spirits of just men long oppressed, When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, The brute and boisterous force of violent men, Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth! He all their ammunition And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour armed; Their armouries and magazines contemns, Renders them useless, while With wingËd expedition Swift as the lightning glance he executes His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.

_Milton._

XVIII

HEROIC LOVE

My dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone: My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.

But, if thou wilt prove faithful then And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen, And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays And love thee more and more.

_Montrose._

XIX

GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field, And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore: I could not love thee, Dear, so much Loved I not Honour more.

_Lovelace._

XX

FROM PRISON

When Love with unconfinËd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The Gods that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confinËd, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, EnlargËd winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.

_Lovelace._

XXI

TWO KINGS

The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unusËd armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war UrgËd his active star;

And, like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide;

For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous or enemy, And with such to inclose Is more than to oppose;

Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And CÊsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens, where He lived reservËd and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,

Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould.

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain (But those do hold or break, As men are strong or weak),

Nature, that hated emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war, Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art,

Where, twining subtile fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case,

That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armËd bands, Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;

Nor called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcËd power: So, when they did design The Capitol's first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That doth both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic's hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!),

He to the Commons' feet presents A kingdom for his first year's rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year?

As CÊsar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his party-coloured mind, But from this valour sad Shrink underneath the plaid;

Happy if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain, A power must it maintain.

_Marvell._

XXII

IN EXILE

Where the remote Bermudas ride In the Ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song. 'What should we do but sing his praise That led us through the watery maze, Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelates' rage: He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by his hand From Lebanon he stores the land, And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name. O let our voice his praise exalt 'Till it arrive at heaven's vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!' Thus sang they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

_Marvell._

XXIII

ALEXANDER'S FEAST

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crowned); The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair! Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above, Such is the power of mighty love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spires he rode When he to fair Olympia pressed, And while he sought her snowy breast, Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; A present deity! they shout around: A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god; Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defied Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of Chance below And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sang, is toil and trouble, Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again: At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Break his bands of sleep asunder And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head; As awaked from the dead, And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew! Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy: And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way To light him to his prey, And like another Helen fired another Troy!

Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit and arts unknown before Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down.

_Dryden._

XXIV

THE QUIET LIFE

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blast or slow decline Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend: Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, lettered arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting Nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest caverns known, His ready help was ever nigh, Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, And lonely want retired to die.

No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gains disdained by pride: The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the eternal Master found His single talent well employed.

The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then, with no throbs of fiery pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.

_Johnson._

XXV

CHEVY CHACE

THE HUNTING

God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A woeful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall;

To drive the deer with hound and horn Erle Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn, The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer's days to take,

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace To kill and bear away. These tydings to Erle Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay:

Who sent Erle Percy present word, He wold prevent his sport. The English Erle, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of neede To ayme their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, To chase the fallow deere: On Monday they began to hunt, Ere daylight did appeare;

And long before high noone they had An hundred fat buckes slaine; Then having dined, the drovyers went To rouse the deere againe.

The bow-men mustered on the hills, Well able to endure; Their backsides all, with special care That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deere to take, And with their cryes the hills and dales An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deere: Quoth he, 'Erle Douglas promisËd This day to meet me here,

But if I thought he wold not come, No longer wold I stay.' With that, a brave younge gentleman Thus to the Erle did say:

'Lo, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, His men in armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish speares All marching in our sight;

All men of pleasant Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweede': 'O, cease your sports,' Erle Percy said, 'And take your bowes with speede;

And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance, For there was never champion yet, In Scotland or in France,

That ever did on horsebacke come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, And with him break a speare.'

THE CHALLENGE

Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold.

'Show me,' said he, 'whose men ye be, That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deere.'

The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy he; Who sayd, 'We list not to declare, Nor shew whose men we be,

Yet we will spend our dearest blood, Thy chiefest harts to slay.' Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say:

'Ere thus I will out-bravËd be, One of us two shall dye: I know thee well, an erle thou art; Lord Percy, so am I.

But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, And great offence to kill Any of these our guiltlesse men, For they have done no ill.

Let thou and I the battell trye, And set our men aside.' 'Accurst be he,' Erle Percy said, 'By whom this is denied.'

Then stept a gallant squier forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, 'I wold not have it told To Henry our king for shame,

That ere my captaine fought on foote, And I stood looking on. Ye be two erles,' said Witherington, 'And I a squier alone:

Ile do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand: While I have power to wield my sword, Ile fight with heart and hand.'

THE BATTLE

Our English archers bent their bowes, Their hearts were good and trew, At the first flight of arrowes sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew.

Yet bides Erle Douglas on the bent, As Chieftain stout and good. As valiant Captain, all unmoved The shock he firmly stood.

His host he parted had in three, As leader ware and try'd, And soon his spearmen on their foes Bare down on every side.

Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound; But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground,

And, throwing strait their bowes away, They grasped their swords so bright, And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light.

They closed full fast on every side, No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground.

O Christ! it was a griefe to see, And likewise for to heare, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scattered here and there!

At last these two stout erles did meet, Like captaines of great might: Like lions wode, they laid on lode, And made a cruel fight:

They fought untill they both did sweat With swords of tempered steele; Until the blood like drops of rain They trickling downe did feele.

'Yield thee, Lord Percy,' Douglas said; 'In faith I will thee bringe, Where thou shalt high advancËd be By James our Scottish king:

Thy ransome I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight, That ever I did see.'

'No, Douglas,' quoth Erle Percy then, 'Thy proffer I do scorne; I will not yield to any Scot, That ever yet was borne.'

With that, there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow:

Who never spake more words than these, 'Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall.'

Then leaving life, Erle Percy tooke The dead man by the hand; And said, 'Erle Douglas, for thy life Wold I had lost my land!

O Christ! my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake, For sure, a more redoubted knight Mischance could never take.'

A knight amongst the Scots there was, Which saw Erle Douglas dye, Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye.

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called Who, with a speare most bright, Well-mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight,

And past the English archers all, Without or dread or feare, And through Erle Percy's body then He thrust his hateful speare.

With such a vehement force and might He did his body gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard, and more.

So thus did both these nobles dye, Whose courage none could staine! An English archer then perceived The noble Erle was slaine:

He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Up to the head drew he;

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye So right the shaft he set, The grey goose-winge that was thereon In his heart's bloode was wet.

This fight did last from breake of day Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell, The battle scarce was done.

THE SLAIN

With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold barÚn;

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount.