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.
Britans, you stay too long; Quickly aboard bestow you! And with a merry gale Swell your stretched 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 Eolus scowls, You need not fear! So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea, Success you still 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 fruitful 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 whose, the Golden Age Still Nature's laws doth give: No other cares that tend, But them to defend From winter's age, 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! Frightening 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 Hakluyt! Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame; And much commend To after Times thy wit.
ODE 12.
To the Cambro-Britans and their Harp, his
Ballad of Agincourt.
[Besides this Ballad: Michael Drayton published, in 1627, a much longer Poem upon this celebrated Battle.]
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, Marcheth towards Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing, day by day, With those that stopped his way, Where the French General 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 raised!"
"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 lillies."
The Duke of York so dread The eager Vanward led; With the Main, Henry sped Amongst his henchmen: Exeter 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 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 bilbowes [swords] drew And on the French they flew: Not one was tardy. Arms were 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 broad sword 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.
Gloucester 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 Saint Crispin's Day, Fought was this noble Fray; Which Fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen? Or England breed again Such a King Harry?
FINIS.