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 lilies.

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward 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 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

Struck 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 bilbos drew,

And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;

Arms were from 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,

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 Bruised 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 fly,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bear 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 Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

(1562?-1595.)

THE BURNING BABE.

In St. Peter's Complaint, with other Poems, 1595. Ben Jonson greatly admired this poem. Southwell's Poetical Works, edited by Mr. W. B. Turnbull, were issued in 1856.

SI in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear,
Who scorched with exceeding heat such floods of tears
did shed,

As though His floods should quench His flames with what
His tears were fed;

Alas! quoth He, but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire

but I!

My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding

thorns;

Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame

and scorns;

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilèd souls For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood. With this He vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk

away,

And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas-day.

(M 349)

M

GEORGE CHAPMAN..

(15572-1634.)

HER COMING.

Ascribed to Chapman in England's Parnassus, 1600. Chapman's Minor Poems and Translations have been reprinted (London, 1875).

SEE where she issues in her beauty's pomp,
As Flora to salute the morning sun;

Who when she shakes her tresses in the air,
Rains on the earth dissolvèd pearl in showers,
Which with his beams the sun exhales to heaven:
She holds the spring and summer in her arms,
And every plant puts on his freshest robes,
To dance attendance on her princely steps,
Springing and fading as she comes and goes.

OF CIRCUMSPECTION.

'N hope to 'scape the law, do naught amiss,
The penance ever in the action is.

SIR JOHN DAVIES.

(1569-1626.)

From the Hymns to Astræa, 1599,-in acrostics! Davies' Poems may be read in volume v. of Chalmer's Poets, or in Dr. Grosart's edition (2 vols., London, 1876), or in Arber's Garner, vol. v.

TO THE ROSE.

EYE of the garden, queen of flowers,

Love's cup wherein he nectar pours,

Ingendered first of nectar:

Sweet nurse-child of the spring's young hours,
And beauty's fair character.