Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son,

Or Athelstan, or English Ironside

Who fought with Knut, or Knut who coming Dane
Died English. Every man about his king

Fought like a king; the king like his own man,
No better; one for all, and all for one,

One soul! and therefore have we shatter'd back
The hugest wave from Norseland ever yet
Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his carrion croak
From the gray sea for ever. Many are gone—
Drink to the dead who died for us, the living
Who fought and would have died, but happier lived,
If happier be to live; they both have life

In the large mouth of England, till her voice
Die with the world.

TENNYSON, Harold, Act IV. Sc. 3.

IV.

HAROLD AND SENLAC

William (on the field of the dead).

Wrap them together in a purple cloak

And lay them both upon the waste sea-shore

At Hastings, there to guard the land for which

—a warrior-ay,

He did forswear himself

And but that Holy Peter fought for us,

And that the false Northumbrian held aloof,
And save for that chance arrow which the Saints
Sharpen'd and sent against him—who can tell?—
Three horses had I slain beneath me: twice

I thought that all was lost. Since I knew battle,
And that was from my boyhood, never yet-
No, by the splendour of God—have I fought men
Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard
Of English. Every man about his king

Fell where he stood. They loved him: and, pray God
My Normans may but move as true with me
To the door of death. Of one self-stock at first,
Make them again one people-Norman, English;
And English, Norman ; we should have a hand
To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it . . .
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No more blood!

I am king of England, so they thwart me not,

And I will rule according to their laws.

TENNYSON, Harold, Act v. Sc. 2.

C

V.

CIVIL WAR, AND THE CRUSADES.

King Henry IV. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood ;

No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way, and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies :
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master.

Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ—

Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross,
We are impressed, and engaged to fight—
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb
To chase these pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter cross.

SHAKSPERE, I Henry IV., Act i. Sc. 1.

VI.

SIMON DE MONTFORT AND THE BATTLE OF LEWES.

A Fragment.

Now does fair England breathe again, hoping for liberty;

And may the grace of God above give her prosperity! Liken'd to dogs the Englishmen of little price were

made;

Now o'er their conquer'd enemies once more they raise their head!

The sword was strong, and many men were slaughter'd in the fight;

But truth prevail'd, and traitors were turn'd to shameful flight;

For the Lord God of valour the perjured men with

stood,

And cast His guarding shield of truth over the pure and good.

By sword without and fear within the one side was opprest;

The other by the favouring grace of Heaven was at

rest.

Earl Simon's faith and faithfulness all England's

peace secure ;

He smites the rebels, calms the realm, and drooping hearts makes sure.

He felt that he must fight for truth, or else must truth

betray:

To truth he gave his right hand brave, and trod the rugged way.

Read, read, ye men of England, of Lewes' fight my lay;

For guarded by that fight ye live securely at this day. If victory had fall'n to those who there were sorely chased,

The memory of England had sorely been disgraced.
M. CREIGHTON (from a contemporary Latin poem).

VII.

THE BLACK PRINCE AND CRESSY.

To King Henry V.

Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb, From whom you claim: invoke his warlike spirit, And your great-uncle's, Edward the Black Prince, Who on the French ground play'd a tragedy, Making defeat on the full power of France,