Freedom beamed in every eye;
Devotion breathed in every sigh;
Freedom heaved their souls on high,
And steeled each hero's breast.
Charging then the coursers sprang,
Sword and helmet clashing rang,
Steel-clad warriors' mixing clang
Echoed round the field.
Deathful see their eyeballs glare!
See the nerves of battle bare!
Arrowy tempests cloud the air,
And glance from every shield.
Hark! the bowman's quivering strings!
Death on gray-goose pinions springs!
Deep they dip their dappled wings
Drunk in heroes' gore.
Lo! Edward, springing on the rear,
Plies his Caledonian spear:
Ruin marks his dread career,
And sweeps them from the shore
See how red the streamlets flow!
See the reeling, yielding foe,
How they melt at every blow!
Yet we shall be free!
Darker yet the strife appears;
Forest dread of flaming spears!
Hark! a shout the welkin tears!
Bruce has victory!
HENRY V. AT THE SIEGE OF HARFLEUR.
ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews,-summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspéct ;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To its full height !-On, on, you noble English,
Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of
argument.
Be copy now for men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war; and you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs are made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture: let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not:
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble luster in your eye:
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game 's a-foot;
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge,
Cry, Heaven for Harry, England and St. George!
HENRY V. ENCOURAGING HIS SOLDIERS.
WHAT's he that wishes for more men from England? My cousin Westmoreland! No, my fair cousin,
If we are marked to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honor:
Heaven's will! I pray thee wish not one man more.
In truth I am not covetous of gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, my good lord, wish not a man from England:
Heaven's peace! I would not lose so great an honor
As one more man, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hopes I have. Wish not one more :
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he who hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart, his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian;
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand on tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars.-
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispian, Crispian, ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered!
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers! [Shakspeare.
"The bones of her sons, fallen in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever."-WEBSTER.
NEW ENGLAND's dead!-New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife made red
By bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle poured
Its red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword,
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.
The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land!
They left the plowshare in the mold,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered on the plain,
And mustered in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress;
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,-
To perish or o'ercome the foe.
O! few and weak their numbers were,
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.
ARNOLD WINKELREID.
"MAKE way for liberty!"-he cried ;
Made way for liberty, and died!-
It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power!
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield,—
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he,
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him,-Arnold Winkelreid!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done! The field was in a moment won :-) "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly:
"Make way for liberty !" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
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