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 honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more!
By Jove, I am not covetous for 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
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have.
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 a-tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, "To-morrow is St. Crispian!"
Then will he strip his sleeves and show his scars.
Old men forget; yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,
The feats they did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,—-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered:
This story shall the good man teach his sons;
And Crispin Crispian shall 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;
For he this day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition :-
And gentlemen in England, now abed,
Shall think themselves accurst they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speak,
That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day. SHAKESPERE.
JOAN OF ARC'S ADDRESS TO THE
KING OF FRANCE.
"KING of France!
"At Chinon, when my gifted eye
"Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit
"Prompted, I spake, arm'd with the sword of God,
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves,
"And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims.
"All is accomplish'd. I have here this day
"Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee
Chief servant of the people. Of this charge, "Or well performed or wickedly, high heaven "Shall take account. If that thine heart be good, I know no limit to the happiness
"Thou may'st create. I do beseech thee, King!"
The maid exclaim'd, and fell upon the ground,
And clasp'd his knees, "I do beseech thee, King,
By all the millions that depend on thee
"For weal or woe,—consider what thou art,
"And know thy duty. If thou dost oppress
"Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself
"Thou tear'st them from their homes, and sendest them To slaughter, prodigal of misery;
"If, when the widow and the orphan groan
In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee
To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue;
"If, when thou hear'st of thousands massacred,
"Thou say'st' I am a king, and fit it is
"That these should perish for me'; if thy realm
"Should, through the counsels of thy government,
"Be filled with woe, and in thy streets be he ard
The voice of mourning and the feeble cry
Of asking hunger; if at such a time
"Thou dost behold thy plenty-covered board,
"And shroud thee in thy robes of royalty,
"And say that all is well,-O gracious God!
"Be merciful to such a monstrous man,
When the spirits of the murdered innocent
Cry at thy throne of justice.
"Protect the lowly, feed the hungry ones,
"And be the orphan's father; thus shalt thou
"Become the representative of heaven,
"And gratitude and love establish thus
"Thy reign. Believe me, King, that hireling guards
Though fleshed in slaughter, would be weak to save
A tyrant on the blood-cemented throne
"That totters underneath him."
JOSEPHUS THE HISTORIAN'S ADDRESS
TO HIS COUNTRYMEN,
IMPLORING THEM TO DISCONTINUE THEIR RESISTANCE TO THE ROMAN ARMS.
O MEN of Israel, brethren, countrymen !
Even from the earth ye see me rise, where lone,
And sorrowful, and fasting I have sat
These three long days; and sackcloth on the limbs
Which once were wont to wear a soldier's raiment,
And ashes on the head which ye of old
Did honour, when its helmèd glories shone
Before you in the paths of battle.
Ye that, as I, adore the law, the prophets;
And at the ineffable thrice-holiest name
Bow down your awe-struck foreheads to the ground.
I am not here to tell you, men of Israel,
That it is madness to contend with Rome:
That it were wisdom to submit and follow
The common fortunes of the universe;
For ye would answer, that 'tis glorious madness
To stand alone amidst the enslaved world,
Freedom's last desperate champions: ye would answer
That the slave's wisdom to the free-born man
Is basest folly. O my countrymen!
Before no earthly king do I command you
To fall subservient, not all-conquering Cæsar,
But in a mightier name I summon you,-
The King of kings. He, he is manifest
In the dark visitation that is on you.
'Tis he, whose loosed and raging ministers,-
Wild war, gaunt famine, leprous pestilence,-
But execute his delegated wrath.
Yea, by the fulness of your crimes, 'tis He!
Alas! shall I weep o'er thee, or go down
And grovel in the dust, and hide myself
From mine own shame ? O thou defiled Jerusalem!
That drinkest thine own blood as from a fountain
That hast piled up the fabric of thy guilt
To such portentous height, that earth is darkened
With its huge shadow-that dost boast the monuments
Of murdered prophets, and dost make the robes
Of God's high priest a title and a claim
To bloodiest slaughter-thou that every day
Dost trample down the thunder-given law,
Even with the pride and joy of him that treads
The purple vintage. And, O thou, our temple!
That wert of old the beauty of holiness,
The chosen, unapproachable abode
Of him which dwelt between the cherubim,
Thou art a charnel-house, and sepulchre
Of slaughtered men, a common butchery
Of civil strife; and hence proclaim I, brethren,
It is the Lord who doth avenge his own;
The Lord, who gives you over to the wicked,
That ye may perish by their wickedness.
LINES WRITTEN FOR RECITATION
ON OCCASION OF THE DEATH OF THE
DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
THE storm that swept over the nations had pass'd,
And the thrones of the mighty that quail'd to the blast,
Again, from the depths of their ruin, uprose
In the sternness of power and gloomy repose;
O'er the land where the outcast, the weak, the opprest,
From the Despot find refuge, from weariness rest,
The one menacing cloud she had mark'd with dismay
Had roll'd from her atmosphere slowly away;
When, from palace to cottage, from mountain to glen,
From the desolate heath and the concourse of men,
From her fields and the hives of her industry came
A wail, that was burthen'd with Wellington's name!
Like a chill on the heart of the nation it fell,
Or a boding of evil that none could foretell ;
But in silence the tears of the people were shed,
As onward and onward the wild rumour sped,
And hush'd were the sounds of rejoicing and mirth,
And its murmur was heard to the ends of the earth!
Hindostan ! crape thy banner, for cold on his bier
Lies the warrior who crush'd in his headlong career
The haughty Mahratta, and scatter'd the train
Of his chivalry, never to rally again!
Lusitania, lament! mourn, Iberia! mourn!
Thy glories had faded, thy banner was torn,
Thy vine-cover'd hills and thy valleys defaced,
And thy cities destroy'd and thy country a waste.
From the far western island the warrior appear'd,
And aloft the red cross of his country uprear'd,
Against numbers unnumber'd, a beacon to light
Thy rude and undisciplin'd warriors in fight:
That flag he bore onward through battle and storm,
And wherever war stalk'd in its deadliest form,
Ne'er again in the face of a foe to be furl'd
Until back to his home the invader was hurl'd!
Tell it Roliça, tell it Vimiéra, and thou,
Placid Douro, where torn from the ravager's brow
Was the wreath that had guerdon'd his triumph and toil
Through massacre, bloodshed, and plunder, and spoil;
Talavera, Busaco, thy ridge drench'd in gore,
Thy streets torn by battle, Fuentes d'Onor!
Thy terrible slaughter, Rodrigo, thy fosse
Piled with victims, that bridged thy red breach, Badajoz !
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