Chapter XVIII: Part VII: The Hermit of the Wood (3)

The king is come to marshal us, all in his armour 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 ye 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 St. Andre'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 St. Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry: No Frenchman 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 points of war, Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth 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 Saint 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 valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.

THE ARMADA

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise: I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth bay; The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield; So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! Our glorious _semper eadem_ the banner of our pride!

The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay, That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spread-- High on St. Michael's Mount it shone--it shone on Beachy Head.

Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves; O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge--the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night from Bristol town; And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red light: The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing street: And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight, for wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went; And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent: Southward, for Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth; High on black Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill; Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

_LORD TENNYSON_

LADY CLARE

IT was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trove they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth'd were they: They two will wed the morrow morn; God's blessing on the day!

'He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, Who was this that went from thee?' 'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, To-morrow he weds with me.'

O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse, That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.'

'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' Said Lady Clare, that ye speak so wild?' As God's above,' said Alice the nurse, I speak the truth: you are my child.

'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.'

Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,' she said, 'if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.'

Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife'

'If I'm a beggar born,' she said, I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 'But keep the secret all ye can.' She said, 'Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.'

'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice the nurse, 'The man will cleave unto his right.' 'And he shall have it,' the lady replied, Tho' I should die to-night.'

'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.' 'O mother, mother, mother,' she said, So strange it seems to me.

'Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.'

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, ropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?'

'If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,' she said, And not the Lady Clare.'

'Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, Your riddle is hard to read.'

O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood 'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, the next in blood--

'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.'

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH

IN her ear he whispers gaily, 'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.' She replies, in accents fainter, 'There is none I love like thee.' He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. 'I can make no marriage present: Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.' They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand: Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, 'Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell.' So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer: Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before: Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, 'All of this is mine and thine.' Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove: But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmur'd, 'Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter, Which did win my heart from me!' So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, 'Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed.' Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest.

EDWARD GRAY

SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, 'And have you lost your heart?' she said; And are you married yet, Edward Gray?'

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 'Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.

'Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will: To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.

'Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill'd I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me.

'Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: "You're too slight and fickle," I said, "To trouble the heart of Edward Gray."

'There I put my face in the grass Whisper'd, "Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!"

'Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, "Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!"

'Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me.

'Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Edward Gray!'

THE OWL

I

WHEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round: Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

II

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay: Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

ORIANA

MY heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana.

Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana: Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana.

In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana.

She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: She watch'd my crest among them all, Oriana: She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana.

The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana: The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana: The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana!

Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana! Oh, narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh, deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana.

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana! How could I rise and come away, Oriana? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabb'd me where I lay Oriana-- They should have trod me into clay, Oriana.

O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana! O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana: What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana?

I cry aloud: none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within my heart my arrow lies, Oriana.

O cursed hand! O cursed blow! Oriana! O happy thou that liest low, Oriana! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana.

THE LADY OF SHALOTT