The Blue Poetry Book

Автор

Andrew Lang

Жанр

Зарубежная классика

Год написания книги

2017

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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
Lopp’d the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vanward led,
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.
Exceter 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 didst the signal aim
To our hid forces, —
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck 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 bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms from the 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,
Into the host did fling,
As to o’erwhelm it,
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruizèd his helmet.

Gloster, 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,
Ferrars and Fanhope.