Part 2
JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS (_b._ 1835). CCXXI. FULFILMENT 297
PERCY RUSSELL (_b._ 1847). CCXXII. THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA 299
HENRY LAWSON (_b._ 1867). CCXXIII. THE WAR OF THE FUTURE 300
ARTHUR MAQUARIE (_b._ 1876). CCXXIV. A FAMILY MATTER 302
ARTHUR ADAMS. CCXXV. THE DWELLINGS OF OUR DEAD 303
WILLIAM OGILVIE. CCXXVI. THE BUSH, MY LOVER 305
GEORGE ESSEX EVANS. CCXXVII. A FEDERAL SONG 307
JOHN BERNARD O’HARA. CCXXVIII. FLINDERS 308 CCXXIX. THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH 309
IX.--NEW ZEALAND
THOMAS BRACKEN (_b._ 1843). CCXXX. NEW ZEALAND HYMN 315
ALEXANDER BATHGATE (_b._ 1845). CCXXXI. OUR HERITAGE 316
ELEANOR ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY. CCXXXII. TO ONE IN ENGLAND 317 CCXXXIII. A VOICE FROM NEW ZEALAND 318
NOTES 323
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 357
I
ENGLAND
ANONYMOUS
I
SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN
Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt, Where English slew and hurt All their French foemen? With their pikes and bills brown, How the French were beat down, Shot by our Bowmen!
Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt, Never to be forgot, Or known to no men? Where English cloth-yard arrows Killed the French like tame sparrows, Slain by our Bowmen!
Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt? English of every sort, High men and low men, Fought that day wondrous well, All our old stories tell, Thanks to our Bowmen!
Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt? Where our fifth Harry taught Frenchmen to know men: And, when the day was done, Thousands there fell to one Good English Bowman!
Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt? Dear was the vict’ry bought By fifty yeomen. Ask any English wench, They were worth all the French: Rare English Bowmen!
_Anonymous._
PEELE
II
FAREWELL TO DRAKE AND NORRIS
Have done with care, my hearts! aboard amain, With stretching sails to plough the swelling waves: Now vail your bonnets to your friends at home: Bid all the lovely British dames adieu! To arms, my fellow-soldiers! Sea and land Lie open to the voyage you intend. To arms, to arms, to honourable arms! Hoist sails; weigh anchors up; plough up the seas With flying keels; plough up the land with swords! You follow them whose swords successful are: You follow Drake, by sea the scourge of Spain, The dreadful dragon, terror to your foes, Victorious in his return from Inde, In all his high attempts unvanquishèd; You follow noble Norris whose renown, Won in the fertile fields of Belgia, Spreads by the gates of Europe to the courts Of Christian kings and heathen potentates. You fight for Christ and England’s peerless Queen, Elizabeth, the wonder of the world, Over whose throne the enemies of God Have thunder’d erst their vain successless braves, O ten-times-treble happy men, that fight Under the cross of Christ and England’s Queen, And follow such as Drake and Norris are! All honours do this cause accompany; All glory on these endless honours waits; These honours and this glory shall He send, Whose honour and Whose glory you defend.
_George Peele._
DRAYTON
III
BALLAD OF AGINCOURT
Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marched towards Agincourt In happy hour, Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way Where the French gen’ral lay With all his power:
Which, in his height 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.
And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, ’Though they to one be ten, Be not amazèd. Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raisèd.’
‘And for myself,’ quoth he, ‘This my full rest shall be: England ne’er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me; 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, Amongst his henchmen; Excester had the rear, A braver man not there: O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which did the single aim To our hid forces! When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went; Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding As to o’erwhelm it, And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruisèd his helmet.
Glo’ster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another!
Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon St. Crispin’s Day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay, To England to carry. O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?
_Michael Drayton._
IV
THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE
You brave heroic minds Worthy your country’s name, That honour still pursue; Go and subdue! Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long: Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale Swell your stretch’d sail With vows as strong As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer West and by south forth keep, Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals When Æolus scowls You need not fear, So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea Success you shall entice To get the pearl and gold, And ours to hold Virginia Earth’s only paradise.
Where nature hath in store Fowl, venison, and fish, And the fruitfull’st soil Without your toil Three harvests more, All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine Crowns with his purple mass The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky, The cypress, pine And useful sassafras.
To whom the golden age Still nature’s laws doth give, Nor other cares attend But them to defend From winter’s rage, That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land Above the seas that flows The clear wind throws Your hearts to swell Approaching the dear strand.
In kenning of the shore (Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Be frolic then! Let cannons roar, Frighting the wide heaven.
And in regions far, Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our north.
And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere,-- Apollo’s sacred tree,-- You it may see A poet’s brows To crown that may sing there.
Thy voyages attend Industrious Hackluit Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame, And much commend To after times thy wit.
_Michael Drayton._
SHAKESPEARE
V
A PICTURE OF ENGLAND
This royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son, This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land.
_William Shakespeare._
VI
ENGLAND INVINCIBLE
This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
_William Shakespeare._
VII
ENGLAND AT WAR
THE PREPARATION
Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man: They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings, With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air, And hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, Promised to Harry and his followers. The French, advised by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural!
AT SEA
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies In motion of no less celerity Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning: Play with your fancies, and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing; For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow: Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance; For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d With one appearing hair, that will not follow These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
KING HARRY TO HIS SOLDIERS
(_At the Siege of Harfleur_)
‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard favour’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock O’er hang and jutty his confounded base, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot; Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”’
THE EVE OF BATTLE
Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix’d sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch: Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umbered face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation: The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and over-lusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently and inly ruminate The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, Presenteth them unto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruin’d band Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’ For forth he goes and visits all his host, Bids them good morrow with a modest smile And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal like the sun His liberal eye doth give to everyone, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly.
KING HARRY’S PRAYER
‘O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord, O, not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard’s body have interred new; And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears Than from it issued forced drops of blood: Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.’
St. Crispin’s Day at Agincourt
(_King Harry to his Soldiers_)
‘This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say ‘To-morrow is saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered; And gentlemen in England now abed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’
THE WELCOME HOME
Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea, Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the king Seems to prepare his way: so let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath, Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruisèd helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city: he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, Giving full trophy, signal and ostent Quite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of the antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in.
_William Shakespeare._
VIII
WOLSEY TO CROMWELL
‘Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; And,--Prithee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.’
_William Shakespeare._
ANONYMOUS
IX
BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY
The fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field: The most conspicuous officers Were English captains three, But the bravest man in battel Was brave Lord Willoughby.
The next was Captain Norris, A valiant man was he: The other, Captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with forty thousand then Upon the bloody shore.
‘Stand to it, noble pikemen, And look you round about: And shoot you right, you bowmen, And we will keep them out: You musket and cailìver men, Do you prove true to me, I’ll be the bravest man in fight,’ Says brave Lord Willoughby.
And then the bloody enemy They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most valiantly Not doubting to prevail: The wounded men on both sides fell Most piteous for to see, Yet nothing could the courage quell Of brave Lord Willoughby.
For seven hours to all men’s view This fight endurèd sore, Until our men so feeble grew That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they eat, And drank the puddle water, They could no better get.
When they had fed so freely, They kneelèd on the ground, And praisèd God devoutly For the favour they had found; And bearing up their colours, The fight they did renew, And cutting tow’rds the Spaniard, Five thousand more they slew.
The sharp steel-pointed arrows And bullets thick did fly, Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously: Which made the Spaniards waver, They thought it best to flee: They feared the stout behaviour Of brave Lord Willoughby.
Then quoth the Spanish general, ‘Come let us march away, I fear we shall be spoilèd all If that we longer stay: For yonder comes Lord Willoughby With courage fierce and fell, He will not give one inch of ground For all the devils in hell.’
And when the fearful enemy Was quickly put to flight, Our men pursued courageously To rout his forces quite; And at last they gave a shout Which echoed through the sky: ‘God and Saint George for England!’ The conquerors did cry.
This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious Queen was told Of this same victory. ‘O! this is brave Lord Willoughby My love that ever won: Of all the lords of honour ’Tis he great deeds hath done!’
To the soldiers that were maimèd, And wounded in the fray, The Queen allowed a pension Of eighteen pence a day, And from all costs and charges She quit and set them free; And this she did all for the sake Of brave Lord Willoughby.
Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismayed! If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foreign enemies, And set our country free, And thus I end the bloody bout Of brave Lord Willoughby.
_Anonymous._
X
THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL
Attend you, and give ear awhile, And you shall understand Of a battle fought upon the seas By a ship of brave command. The fight it was so glorious Men’s hearts it did fulfil, And it made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea, With the _Angel Gabriel_!’