The Complete Poems Read online

I told him he look’d like a candle half

  Burn’d out; he answer’d, he was ‘pig enough

  160 ‘To light another pattle.’ Last night, beneath

  The moon I walk’d abroad, when all had pitch’d

  Their tents, and all were still,

  I heard a blooming youth singing a song

  He had compos’d, and at each pause he wip’d

  His dropping eyes. The ditty was, ‘if he

  ‘Return’d victorious, he should wed a maiden

  ‘Fairer than snow, and rich as midsummer.’

  Another wept, and wish’d health to his father.

  I chid them both, but gave them noble hopes.

  170 These are the minds that glory in the battle,

  And leap and dance to hear the trumpet sound.

  KING: Sir Thomas Dagworth, be thou near our person;

  Thy heart is richer than the vales of France:

  I will not part with such a man as thee.

  If Philip came arm’d in the ribs of death,

  And shook his mortal dart against my head,

  Thoud’st laugh his fury into nerveless shame!

  Go now, for thou art suited to the work,

  Throughout the camp; enflame the timorous,

  180 Blow up the sluggish into ardour, and

  Confirm the strong with strength, the weak inspire,

  And wing their brows with hope and expectation:

  Then to our tent return, and meet to council.

  Exit Dagworth.

  CHAND: That man’s a hero in his closet, and more

  A hero to the servants of his house

  Than to the gaping world; he carries windows

  In that enlarged breast of his, that all

  May see what’s done within.

  PRINCE: He is a genuine Englishman, my Chandos,

  190 And hath the spirit of Liberty within him.

  Forgive my prejudice, Sir John; I think

  My Englishmen the bravest people on

  The face of the earth.

  CHAND: Courage, my Lord, proceeds from self-dependence;

  Teach man to think he’s a free agent,

  Give but a slave his liberty, he’ll shake

  Off sloth, and build himself a hut, and hedge

  A spot of ground; this he’ll defend; ’tis his

  By right of nature: thus set in action,

  200 He will still move onward to plan conveniences,

  ’Till glory fires his breast to enlarge his castle,

  While the poor slave drudges all day, in hope

  To rest at night.

  KING: O Liberty, how glorious art thou!

  I see thee hov’ring o’er my army, with

  Thy wide-stretch’d plumes; I see thee

  Lead them on to battle;

  210 I see thee blow thy golden trumpet, while

  Thy sons shout the strong shout of victory!

  O noble Chandos! think thyself a gardener,

  My son a vine, which I commit unto

  Thy care; prune all extravagant shoots, and guide

  Th’ ambitious tendrils in the paths of wisdom;

  Water him with thy advice, and Heav’n

  Rain fresh’ning dew upon his branches. And,

  O Edward, my dear son! learn to think lowly of

  Thyself, as we may all each prefer other –

  ’Tis the best policy, and ’tis our duty.

  Exit King Edward.

  PRINCE: And may our duty, Chandos, be our pleasure –

  220 Now we are alone, Sir John, I will unburden,

  And breathe my hopes into the burning air,

  Where thousand deaths are posting up and down,

  Commission’d to this fatal field of Cressy;

  Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers,

  And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit

  Each shining helm, and string each stubborn bow,

  And dance to the neighing of our steeds.

  Methinks the shout begins, the battle burns;

  Methinks I see them perch on English crests,

  230 And roar the wild flame of fierce war, upon

  The thronged enemy! In truth, I am too full;

  It is my sin to love the noise of war.

  Chandos, thou seest my weakness; strong nature

  Will bend or break us; my blood, like a springtide,

  Does rise so high, to overflow all bounds

  Of moderation; while Reason, in his

  Frail bark, can see no shore or bound for vast

  Ambition. Come, take the helm, my Chandos,

  That my full-blown sails overset me not

  240 In the wild tempest; condemn my ’ventrous youth,

  That plays with danger, as the innocent child,

  Unthinking, plays upon the viper’s den:

  I am a coward, in my reason, Chandos.

  CHAND: You are a man, my prince, and a brave man,

  If I can judge of actions; but your heat

  Is the effect of youth, and want of use;

  Use makes the armed field and noisy war

  Pass over as a summer cloud, unregarded,

  Or but expected as a thing of course.

  250 Age is contemplative; each rolling year

  Brings forth fruit to the mind’s treasure-house;

  While vacant youth doth crave and seek about

  Within itself, and findeth discontent:

  Then, tir’d of thought, impatient takes the wing,

  Seizes the fruits of time, attacks experience,

  Roams round vast Nature’s forest, where no bounds

  Are set, the swiftest may have room, the strongest

  Find prey; till tir’d at length, sated and tired

  With the changing sameness, old variety,

  260 We sit us down, and view our former joys

  With distaste and dislike.

  PRINCE: Then if we must tug for experience,

  Let us not fear to beat round Nature’s wilds,

  And rouze the strongest prey; then if we fall,

  We fall with glory; I know the wolf

  Is dangerous to fight, not good for food,

  Nor is the hide a comely vestment; so

  We have our battle for our pains. I know

  That youth has need of age to point fit prey,

  270 And oft the stander-by shall steal the fruit

  Of th’ other’s labour. This is philosophy;

  These are the tricks of the world; but the pure soul

  Shall mount on native wings, disdaining

  Little sport, and cut a path into the heaven of glory,

  Leaving a track of light for men to wonder at.

  I’m glad my father does not hear me talk;

  You can find friendly excuses for me, Chandos;

  But do you not think, Sir John, that if it please

  Th’ Almighty to stretch out my span of life,

  280 I shall with pleasure view a glorious action,

  Which my youth master’d.

  CHAND: Considerate age, my Lord, views motives,

  And not acts; when neither warbling voice,

  Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits

  With trembling age; the voice of Conscience then,

  Sweeter than music in a summer’s eve,

  Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep

  Sweet symphony to feather’d angels, sitting

  As guardians round your chair; then shall the pulse

  290 Beat slow, and taste, and touch, and sight, and sound, and smell,

  That sing and dance round Reason’s fine-wrought throne,

  Shall flee away, and leave him all forlorn;

  Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend.

  Exeunt.

  SCENE [4]

  In Sir Thomas Dagworth’s Tent. Dagworth and William his Man.

  DAGW: Bring hither my armour, William;

  Ambition is the growth of ev’ry clime.

  WILL
: Does it grow in England, Sir?

  DAGW: Aye, it grows most in lands most cultivated.

  WILL: Then it grows most in France; the vines here

  Are finer than any we have in England.

  DAGW: Aye, but the oaks are not.

  WILL: What is the tree you mentioned? I don’t think

  I ever saw it.

  10 DAGW: Ambition.

  WILL: Is it a little creeping root that grows in ditches?

  DAGW: Thou dost not understand me, William.

  It is a root that grows in every breast;

  Ambition is the desire or passion that one man

  Has to get before another, in any pursuit after glory;

  But I don’t think you have any of it.

  WILL: Yes, I have; I have a great ambition to know every thing, Sir.

  DAGW: But when our first ideas are wrong, what follows

  20 must all be wrong of course; ’tis best to know a little, and to know that little aright.

  WILL: Then, Sir, I should be glad to know if it was not ambition that brought over our King to France to fight for his right?

  DAGW: Tho’ the knowledge of that will not profit thee much, yet I will tell you that it was ambition.

  WILL: Then if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in coming with him, and in fighting for him.

  30 DAGW: Now, William, thou dost thrust the question

  home; but I must tell you, that guilt being an act of the mind, none are guilty but those whose minds are prompted by that same ambition.

  WILL: Now I always thought, that a man might be guilty of doing wrong, without knowing it was wrong.

  DAGW: Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowest truth by instinct; while reason runs aground, as we have run our argument. Only remember, William, all have it in their power to know the motives of their own actions, and ’tis a sin to act without some reason.

  40 WILL: And whoever acts without reason, may do a great

  deal of harm without knowing it.

  DAGW: Thou art an endless moralist.

  WILL: Now there’s a story come into my head, that I will tell your honour, if you’ll give me leave.

  DAGW: No, William, save it till another time; this is no time for storytelling; but here comes one who is as entertaining as a good story.

  Enter Peter Blunt.

  PETER: Yonder’s a musician going to play before the King; it’s a new song about the French and English, and the

  50 Prince has made the minstrel a ’squire, and given him I

  don’t know what, and I can’t tell whether he don’t mention us all one by one; and he is to write another about all us that are to die, that we may be remembered in Old England, for all our blood and bones are in France; and a great deal more that we shall all hear by and by; and I came to tell your honour, because you love to hear war-songs.

  DAGW: And who is this minstrel, Peter, do’st know?

  PETER: O aye, I forgot to tell that; he has got the same

  60 name as Sir John Chandos, that the prince is always

  with – the wise man, that knows us all as well as your honour, only e’nt so good natur’d.

  DAGW: I thank you, Peter, for your information, but not for your compliment, which is not true; there’s as much difference between him and me, as between glittering sand and fruitful mold; or shining glass and a wrought diamond, set in rich gold, and fitted to the finger of an emperor: such is that worthy Chandos.

  PETER: I know your honour does not think any thing of

  70 yourself, but every body else does.

  DAGW: Go, Peter, get you gone; flattery is delicious, even from the lips of a babbler.

  Exit Peter.

  WILL: I never flatter your honour.

  DAGW: I don’t know that.

  WILL: Why you know, Sir, when we were in England, at the tournament at Windsor, and the Earl of Warwick was tumbled over, you ask’d me if he did not look well when he fell? and I said, No, he look’d very foolish; and you was very angry with me for not flattering you.

  80 DAGW: You mean that I was angry with you for not flattering

  the Earl of Warwick.

  Exeunt.

  SCENE [5]

  Sir Thomas Dagwort’s Tent. Sir Thomas Dagworth – to him.

  Enter Sir Walter Manny.

  SIR WALTER: Sir Thomas Dagworth, I have been weeping

  Over the men that are to die to-day.

  DAGW: Why, brave Sir Walter, you or I may fall.

  SIR WALTER: I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot,

  Cover’d with silence and forgetfulness. –

  Death wons in cities’ smoke, and in still night,

  When men sleep in their beds, walketh about!

  How many in walled cities lie and groan,

  Turning themselves upon their beds,

  10 Talking with death, answering his hard demands!

  How many walk in darkness, terrors are round

  The curtains of their beds, destruction is

  Ready at the door! How many sleep

  In earth, cover’d with stones and deathy dust,

  Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk

  Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more!

  Yet death is terrible, tho’ borne on angels’ wings!

  How terrible then is the field of death,

  Where he doth rend the vault of heaven,

  20 And shake the gates of hell!

  O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky,

  Tho’ sunshine light it, seems to me as pale

  As the pale fainting man on his death-bed,

  Whose face is shewn by light of sickly taper!

  It makes me sad and sick at very heart,

  Thousands must fall to-day!

  DAGW: Thousands of souls must leave this prison house,

  To be exalted to those heavenly fields,

  Where songs of triumph, palms of victory,

  30 Where peace, and joy, and love, and calm content,

  Sit singing in the azure clouds, and strew

  Flowers of heaven’s growth over the banquet-table:

  Bind ardent Hope upon your feet like shoes,

  Put on the robe of preparation,

  The table is prepar’d in shining heaven,

  The flowers of immortality are blown;

  Let those that fight, fight in good stedfastness,

  And those that fall shall rise in victory.

  SIR WALTER: I’ve often seen the burning field of war,

  40 And often heard the dismal clang of arms;

  But never, till this fatal day of Cressy,

  Has my soul fainted with these views of death!

  I seem to be in one great charnel-house,

  And seem to scent the rotten carcases!

  I seem to hear the dismal yells of death,

  While the black gore drops from his horrid jaws:

  Yet I not fear the monster in his pride. –

  But O the souls that are to die to-day!

  DAGW: Stop, brave Sir Walter; let me drop a tear,

  50 Then let the clarion of war begin;

  I’ll fight and weep, ’tis in my country’s cause;

  I’ll weep and shout for glorious liberty.

  Grim war shall laugh and shout, decked in tears,

  And blood shall flow like streams across the

  meadows, That murmur down their pebbly channels, and

  Spend their sweet lives to do their country service:

  Then shall England’s verdure shoot, her fields shall smile,

  Her ships shall sing across the foaming sea,

  Her mariners shall use the flute and viol,

  60 And rattling guns, and black and dreary war,

  Shall be no more.

  SIR WALTER: Well; let the trumpet sound, and the drum beat;

  Let war stain the blue heavens with bloody banners,

  I’ll draw my sword, nor ever sheath it up,

  ’Till England blow the trump of victory,

>   Or I lay stretch’d upon the field of death!

  Exeunt.

  SCENE [6]

  In the Camp. Several of the Warriors met at the King’s Tent with a Minstrel, who sings the following Song:

  O sons of Trojan Brutus, cloath’d in war,

  Whose voices are the thunder of the field,

  Rolling dark clouds o’er France, muffling the sun

  In sickly darkness like a dim eclipse,

  Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire

  Burning up nations in your wrath and fury!

  Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy,

  (Like lions rouz’d by light’ning from their dens,

  Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires)

  10 Heated with war, fill’d with the blood of Greeks,

  With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore,

  In navies black, broken with wind and tide!

  They landed in firm array upon the rocks

  Of Albion; they kiss’d the rocky shore;

  ‘Be thou our mother, and our nurse,’ they said;

  ‘Our children’s mother, and thou shalt be our grave;

  ‘The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence

  ‘Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful

  pow’rs.’

  Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices

  20 Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons

  Of Ocean run from rocks and caves: wild men,

  Naked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks,

  And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled

  Thick as a forest, ready for the axe.

  Our fathers move in firm array to battle,

  The savage monsters rush like roaring fire;

  Like as a forest roars with crackling flames,

  When the red lightning, borne by furious storms,

  Lights on some woody shore; the parched heavens

  30 Rain fire into the molten raging sea!

  The smoaking trees are strewn upon the shore,

  Spoil’d of their verdure! O how oft have they

  Defy’d the storm that howled o’er their heads!

  Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view

  The mighty dead: giant bodies, streaming blood,

  Dread visages, frowning in silent death!

  Then Brutus spoke, inspir’d; our fathers sit

  40 Attentive on the melancholy shore: –

  Hear ye the voice of Brutus – ‘The flowing waves

  ‘Of time come rolling o’er my breast,’ he said;

  ‘And my heart labours with futurity:

  ‘Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea.

  ‘Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west,

  ‘Their nest is in the sea; but they shall roam

  ‘Like eagles for the prey; nor shall the young