King

O thou to whose fury the nations are But as dust! maintain thy servant’s right. Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear, And forged helm, and shield of seven times beaten brass, Are idle trophies of the vanquisher. When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame, When the cries of blood tear horror from heaven, And yelling Death runs up and down the ranks, Let Liberty, the chartered right of Englishmen, Won by our fathers in many a glorious field, Enerve my soldiers; let Liberty Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle. The enemy fight in chains, invisible chains, but heavy; Their minds are fettered; then how can they be free? While, like the mounting flame, We spring to battle o’er the floods of death! And these fair youths, the flower of England, Venturing their lives in my most righteous cause, Oh, sheathe their hearts with triple steel, that they May emulate their fathers’ virtues! And thou, my son, be strong; thou fightest for a crown That death can never ravish from thy brow, A crown of glory—but from thy very dust Shall beam a radiance, to fire the breasts Of youth unborn! Our names are written equal In Fame’s wide-trophied hall; ’tis ours to gild The letters, and to make them shine with gold That never tarnishes: whether Third Edward, Or the Prince of Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer, Or ev’n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest fame, Is in His hand to Whom all men are equal. The world of men are like the numerous stars That beam and twinkle in the depth of night, Each clad in glory according to his sphere; But we, that wander from our native seats And beam forth lustre on a darkling world, Grow large as we advance: and some, perhaps The most obscure at home, that scarce were seen To twinkle in their sphere, may so advance That the astonished world, with upturned eyes, Regardless of the moon, and those that once were bright, Stand only for to gaze upon their splendour. [He here knights the Prince and other young Nobles Now let us take a just revenge for those Brave lords who fell beneath the bloody axe At Paris. Thanks, noble Harcourt, for it was By your advice we landed here in Brittany, A country not yet sown with destruction, And where the fiery whirlwind of swift war Has not yet swept its desolating wing.— Into three parties we divide by day, And separate march, but join again at night: Each knows his rank, and Heaven marshal all. [Exeunt