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For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me: (while I tell it, do I live?)
He smote me on the cheek!-I did not stab him ;
That were poor revenge.—E'er since, his folly
Has striven to bury it beneath a heap
Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot.
Insolent thought! and like a second blow.
Has the dark adder venom? So have I,
When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel me !-
By nightly march he purposed to surprise
The Moorish camp; but I have taken care
They shall be ready to receive his favour.
Failing in this (a cast of utmost moment,)
Would darken all the conquests he has won.-
Be propitious, O Mahomet, on this important hour;
And give, at length, my famished soul revenge!
3. MARCELLUS'S SPEECH TO THE MOB. WHEREFORE rejoice? that Cæsar comes in triumph! What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
Oh you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome;
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in his concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire ?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plagues
That needs must light on this ingratitude.
-RICHMOND ENCOURAGING HIS SOLDIERS.
THUS far into the bowels of the land
Have we marched on without impediment.
Richard, the bloody and devouring chief,
Whose ravenous appetite has spoiled your fields,
Laid this rich country waste, and rudely cropped
Its ripened hopes of fair posterity,
Is now even in the centre of the isle.
Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted:
The very weight of Richard's guilt shall crush him.
Then, let us on, my friends, and boldly face him.
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man
As mild behaviour and humanity;
But, when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment.
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt
Shall be this body on the earth's cold face;
But, if we thrive, the glory of the action
The meanest soldier here shall share his part of.
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords,
Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully;
The word's "St George, Richmond, and Victory!"
5.-DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I longed
To follow to the field some warlike lord;
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rushed like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fied
For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hovered about the enemy, and marked
The road he took; then hasted to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe.,
We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdained
The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summoned his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps,-
Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers,
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
6.-HENRY V.'S SPEECH AT AGINCOURT. WHAT'S he that wishes 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 honour.
No, no, my lord, wish not a man from England:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my host,
That he who hath no stomach to this fight
May straight depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company.
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 Saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,
What 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 Glos'ter,-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered:
This story shall the good man teach his son ;
And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother; be he e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day.
7.-SPEECH OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE.
WE'RE here assembled for the toughest fight
That ever strained the force of English arms.
See yon wide field, with glittering numbers gay!
Vain of their strength, they challenge us for slaves,
And bid us yield their prisoners at discretion.
If there's an Englishman among you all,
Whose soul can basely truckle to such bondage,
Let him depart. For me, I swear by Heaven,
By my great father's soul, and by my fame,
My country ne'er shall pay a ransom for me!
Nor will I stoop to drag out life in bondage,
And take my pittance from a Frenchman's hands.
This I resolve, and hope, brave countrymen,
Ye all resolve the same.
I see the generous indignation rise,
That soon will shake the boasted power of France:
Their monarch trembles midst his gaudy train,
To think the troops he now prepares to meet,
Are such as never fainted yet with toil.
They're such as yet no power on earth could awe,
No army baffle, and no town withstand.
Heavens! with what pleasure, with what love I gaze,
In every face to view his father's greatness!
Those fathers, those undaunted fathers, who,
In Gallic blood, have often dyed their swords.
Those fathers, who in Cyprus wrought such feats,
Who taught the Syracusans to submit,
Tamed the Calabrians, the fierce Saracens,
And have subdued, in many a stubborn fight,
The Palestinean warriors. Scotland's fields,
That have so oft been drenched with native gore,
Bear noble record; and the fertile isle
Of fair Hibernia, by their swords subjected,
An ample tribute and obedience pays.
On her high mountains Wales received their laws,
And the whole world has witnessed to their glory.
View all yon glittering grandeur as your spoils,
The sure reward of this day's victory.
Strain every faculty, and let your minds,
Your hopes, your ardours, reach their utmost bounds:
Follow your standards with a fearless spirit;
Follow the great examples of your sires;
Follow, in me, your brother, prince, and friend.
Draw, fellow-soldiers, catch the inspiring flame;
We fight for England, liberty, and fame.
8.-HOW DOUGLAS LEARNED THE ART of war.
BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inaccessible by shepherds trode,
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit lived; a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wandering swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms.
I went to see him, and my heart was touched
With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake,
And, entering on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell:
For he had been a soldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against the usurping infidel displayed
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleased with my admiration, and the fire
His speech struck from me, the old man would shake
years away, and act his young encounters.
Then, having showed his wounds, he'd sit him down,
And all the live-long day discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf,
He cut the figures of the marshalled host: