Chapter 12

The king has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout: God save our lord the king! "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may-- For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray-- Press where you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest. A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours: Mayenne hath turned his rein; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry--"No Frenchmen is my foe: Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white-- Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide--that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne-- Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

LORD MACAULAY.

* * * * *

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

You know we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall," Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through), You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes: "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE BRONZE STATUE OF NAPOLEON.

The work is done! the spent flame burns no more, The furnace fires smoke and die, The iron flood boils over. Ope the door, And let the haughty one pass by! Roar, mighty river, rush upon your course, A bound,--and, from your dwelling past, Dash forward, like a torrent from its source, A flame from the volcano cast! To gulp your lava-waves earth's jaws extend, Your fury in one mass fling forth,-- In your steel mould, O Bronze, a slave descend, An emperor return to earth! Again NAPOLEON,--'tis his form appears! Hard soldier in unending quarrel, Who cost so much of insult, blood, and tears, For only a few boughs of laurel!

For mourning France it was a day of grief, When, down from its high station flung, His mighty statue, like some shameful thief, In coils of a vile rope was hung; When we beheld at the grand column's base, And o'er a shrieking cable bowed, The stranger's strength that mighty bronze displace To hurrahs of a foreign crowd; When, forced by thousand arms, head-foremost thrown, The proud mass cast in monarch mould Made sudden fall, and on the hard, cold stone Its iron carcass sternly rolled. The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled, rank skin, Ignoble fury in his glance, The emperor's form the kennel's filth within Drew after him, in face of France! On those within whose bosoms hearts hold reign, That hour like remorse must weigh On each French brow,--'tis the eternal stain, Which only death can wash away! I saw, where palace-walls gave shade and ease, The wagons of the foreign force; I saw them strip the bark which clothed our trees, To cast it to their hungry horse. I saw the Northman, with his savage lip, Bruising our flesh till black with gore, Our bread devour,--on our nostrils sip The air which was our own before!

In the abasement and the pain,--the weight Of outrages no words make known,-- I charged one only being with my hate: _Be thou accursed, Napoleon!_ O lank-haired Corsican, your France was fair, In the full sun of Messidor! She was a tameless and a rebel mare, Nor steel bit nor gold rein she bore; Wild steed with rustic flank;--yet, while she trod,-- Reeking with blood of royalty, But proud with strong foot striking the old sod, At last, and for the first time, free,-- Never a hand, her virgin form passed o'er, Left blemish nor affront essayed; And never her broad sides the saddle bore, Nor harness by the stranger made. A noble vagrant,--with coat smooth and bright, And nostril red, and action proud,-- As high she reared, she did the world affright With neighings which rang long and loud. You came; her mighty loins, her paces scanned, Pliant and eager for the track; Hot Centaur, twisting in her mane your hand, You sprang all booted to her back. Then, as she loved the war's exciting sound, The smell of powder and the drum, You gave her Earth for exercising ground, Bade Battles as her pastimes come! Then, no repose for her,--no nights, no sleep! The air and toil for evermore! And human forms like unto sand crushed deep, And blood which rose her chest before! Through fifteen years her hard hoofs' rapid course So ground the generations, And she passed smoking in her speed and force Over the breast of nations; Till,--tired in ne'er earned goal to place vain trust, To tread a path ne'er left behind, To knead the universe and like a dust To uplift scattered human kind,-- Feebly and worn, and gasping as she trode, Stumbling each step of her career, She craved for rest the Corsican who rode. But, torturer! you would not hear; You pressed her harder with your nervous thigh, You tightened more the goading bit, Choked in her foaming mouth her frantic cry, And brake her teeth in fury-fit. She rose,--but the strife came. From farther fall Saved not the curb she could not know,-- She went down, pillowed on the cannon-ball, And thou wert broken by the blow!

Now born again, from depths where thou wert hurled, A radiant eagle dost thou rise; Winging thy flight again to rule the world, Thine image reascends the skies. No longer now the robber of a crown,-- The insolent usurper,--he, With cushions of a throne, unpitying, down Who pressed the throat of Liberty,-- Old slave of the Alliance, sad and lone, Who died upon a sombre rock, And France's image until death dragged on For chain, beneath the stranger's stroke,-- NAPOLEON stands, unsullied by a stain: Thanks to the flatterer's tuneful race The lying poets who ring praises vain, Has Cæsar 'mong the gods found place! His image to the city-walls gives light; His name has made the city's hum,-- Still sounded ceaselessly, as through the fight It echoed farther than the drum. From the high suburbs, where the people crowd, Doth Paris, an old pilgrim now, Each day descend to greet the pillar proud, And humble there his monarch brow;-- The arms encumbered with a mortal wreath, With flowers for that bronze's pall, (No mothers look on, as they pass beneath,-- It grew beneath their tears so tall!)-- In working-vest, in drunkenness of soul, Unto the fife's and trumpet's tone, Doth joyous Paris dance the Carmagnole Around the great Napoleon.

Thus, Gentle Monarchs, pass unnoted on! Mild Pastors of Mankind, away! Sages, depart, as common brows have gone, Devoid of the immortal ray! For vainly you make light the people's chain; And vainly, like a calm flock, come On your own footsteps, without sweat or pain, The people,--treading towards their tomb. Soon as your star doth to its setting glide, And its last lustre shall be given By your quenched name,--upon the popular tide Scarce a faint furrow shall be riven. Pass, pass ye on! For you no statue high! Your names shall vanish from the horde: Their memory is for those who lead to die Beneath the cannon and the sword; Their love, for him who on the humid field By thousands lays to rot their bones; For him, who bids them pyramids to build,-- And bear upon their backs the stones!

From the French of AUGUSTE BARBIER.

* * * * *

ON THE WARRES IN IRELAND.

FROM "EPIGRAMS," BOOK IV. EPIGRAM 6.

I praised the speech, but cannot now abide it, That warre is sweet to those that have not try'd it; For I have proved it now and plainly see't, It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet. At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome; Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome. There without baked, rost, boyl'd, it is no cheere; Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here. There we complain of one wan roasted chick; Here meat worse cookt ne're makes us sick. At home in silken sparrers, beds of Down, We scant can rest, but still tosse up and down; Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow, A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow. There if a child but cry, O what a spite! Here we can brook three larums in one night. There homely rooms must be perfumed with Roses; Here match and powder ne're offend our noses. There from a storm of rain we run like Pullets; Here we stand fast against a shower of bullets. Lo, then how greatly their opinions erre, That think there is no great delight in warre; But yet for this, sweet warre, He be thy debtor, I shall forever love my home the better.

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

* * * * *

ALFRED THE HARPER.

Dark fell the night, the watch was set, The host was idly spread, The Danes around their watchfires met, Caroused, and fiercely fed.

The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves And Guthrum, king of all, Devoured the flesh of England's beeves, And laughed at England's fall. Each warrior proud, each Danish earl, In mail of wolf-skin clad, Their bracelets white with plundered pearl, Their eyes with triumph mad.

From Humber-land to Severn-land, And on to Tamar stream, Where Thames makes green the towery strand, Where Medway's waters gleam,-- With hands of steel and mouths of flame They raged the kingdom through; And where the Norseman sickle came, No crop but hunger grew.

They loaded many an English horse With wealth of cities fair; They dragged from many a father's corse The daughter by her hair. And English slaves, and gems and gold, Were gathered round the feast; Till midnight in their woodland hold, O, never that riot ceased.

In stalked a warrior tall and rude Before the strong sea-kings; "Ye Lords and Earls of Odin's brood, Without a harper sings. He seems a simple man and poor, But well he sounds the lay; And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure, Will ye the song repay."

In trod the bard with keen cold look, And glanced along the board, That with the shout and war-cry shook Of many a Danish lord. But thirty brows, inflamed and stern, Soon bent on him their gaze, While calm he gazed, as if to learn Who chief deserved his praise.

Loud Guthrum spake,--"Nay, gaze not thus, Thou Harper weak and poor! By Thor! who bandy looks with us Must worse than looks endure. Sing high the praise of Denmark's host, High praise each dauntless Earl; The brave who stun this English coast With war's unceasing whirl."

The Harper slowly bent his head, And touched aloud the string; Then raised his face, and boldly said, "Hear thou my lay, O King! High praise from every mouth of man To all who boldly strive, Who fall where first the fight began, And ne'er go back alive.

"Fill high your cups, and swell the shout, At famous Regnar's name! Who sank his host in bloody rout, When he to Humber came. His men were chased, his sons were slain, And he was left alone. They bound him in an iron chain Upon a dungeon stone.

"With iron links they bound him fast; With snakes they filled the hole, That made his flesh their long repast, And bit into his soul.

"Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes? Why champ your teeth in pain? Still lives the song though Regnar dies! Fill high your cups again! Ye too, perchance, O Norseman lords! Who fought and swayed so long, Shall soon but live in minstrel words, And owe your names to song.

"This land has graves by thousands more Than that where Regnar lies. When conquests fade, and rule is o'er, The sod must close your eyes. How soon, who knows? Not chief, nor bard; And yet to me 'tis given, To see your foreheads deeply scarred, And guess the doom of Heaven.

"I may not read or when or how, But, Earls and Kings, be sure I see a blade o'er every brow, Where pride now sits secure. Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain! When chief and monarch fall, Their names in song shall breathe again, And thrill the feastful hall."

Grim sat the chiefs; one heaved a groan, And one grew pale with dread, His iron mace was grasped by one, By one his wine was shed. And Guthrum cried, "Nay, bard, no more We hear thy boding lay; Make drunk the song with spoil and gore! Light up the joyous fray!" "Quick throbs my brain,"--so burst the song,-- To hear the strife once more. The mace, the axe, they rest too long; Earth cries, My thirst is sore. More blithely twang the strings of bows Than strings of harps in glee; Red wounds are lovelier than the rose Or rosy lips to me.

"O, fairer than a field of flowers, When flowers in England grew, Would be the battle's marshalled powers, The plain of carnage new. With all its death before my soul The vision rises fair; Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl! I would that I were there!"

Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye Rolled fiercely round the throng; It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh, Whose shock aroused the song. A golden cup King Guthrum gave To him who strongly played; And said, "I won it from the slave Who once o'er England swayed."

King Guthrum cried, "'Twas Alfred's own; Thy song befits the brave: The King who cannot guard his throne Nor wine nor song shall have." The minstrel took the goblet bright, And said, "I drink the wine To him who owns by justest right The cup thou bid'st be mine. To him, your Lord, O shout ye all! His meed be deathless praise! The King who dares not nobly fall, Dies basely all his days."

"The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said, "With sweetness fills mine ear; For Alfred swift before me fled, And left me monarch here. The royal coward never dared Beneath mine eye to stand. O, would that now this feast he shared, And saw me rule his land!"

Then stern the minstrel rose, and spake, And gazed upon the King,-- "Not now the golden cup I take, Nor more to thee I sing. Another day, a happier hour, Shall bring me here again: The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power, Till I demand it then."

The Harper turned and left the shed, Nor bent to Guthrum's crown; And one who marked his visage said It wore a ghastly frown. The Danes ne'er saw that Harper more, For soon as morning rose, Upon their camp King Alfred bore, And slew ten thousand foes.

JOHN STERLING.

* * * * *

CHEVY-CHACE.

[A modernized form of the old ballad of the "Hunting o' the Cheviot." Some circumstances of the battle of Olter-bourne (A.D. 1388) are woven into the ballad, and the affairs of the two events are confounded. The ballad preserved in the "Percy Reliques" is probably as old as 1574. The one following is not later than the time of Charles II]

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

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

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

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay;

Who sent Earl Piercy present word He would prevent his sport. The English earl, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort.

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deer; On Monday they began to hunt, When daylight did appear;

And long before high noon they had A hundred fat bucks slain; Then, having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again.

The bowmen mustered on the hills, Well able to endure; And all their rear, with special care, That day was guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods The nimble deer to take, That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make.

Lord Piercy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deer; Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here;

"But if I thought he would not come, No longer would I stay;" With that a brave young gentleman Thus to the earl did say:--

"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come,-- His men in armor bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight;

"All men of pleasant Tividale, Fast by the river Tweed;" "Then cease your sports," Earl Piercy said, "And take your bows with speed;

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

"That ever did on horseback come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spear."

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armor shone like gold.

"Show me," said he, "whose men you be, That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer."

The first man that did answer make, Was noble Piercy, he-- Who said, "We list not to declare, Nor show whose men we be:

"Yet will we 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-braved be, One of us two shall die; I know thee well, an earl thou art,-- Lord Piercy, so am I.

"But trust me, Piercy, pity it were, And great offence, to kill Any of these our guiltless men, For they have done no ill.

"Let you and me the battle try, And set our men aside." "Accursed be he," Earl Piercy said, "By whom this is denied."

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, "I would not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame,

"That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stood looking on. You two be earls," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone;

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

Our English archers bent their bows,-- Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew.

Yet stays Earl 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 tried; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bore 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 straight their bows 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.

In truth, it was a grief to see How each one chose his spear, And how the blood out of their breasts Did gush like water clear.

At last these two stout earls did meet; Like captains of great might, Like lions wode, they laid on lode, And made a cruel fight.

They fought until they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steel, Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling down did feel.

"Yield thee, Lord Piercy," Douglas said, "In faith I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanced be By James, our Scottish king.

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

"No, Douglas," saith Earl Piercy then, "Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born."

With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl 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 Piercy sees my fall."

Then leaving life, Earl Piercy took The dead man by the hand; And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my land.