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 heard
"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.
'King of France !
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. Hear me,
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 1 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 passed, 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!
Salamanca! whose plains saw the confident host
Half swept from the earth in the pride of their boast!
Vittoria, whose trophies still blazon the wall,
In the gloom of the conqueror's desolate hall!
And that last fearful conflict convulsive, the throe
Of an empire expiring, where foeman and foe
Lay in lines as they fell, and while yet it had breath
Thy suburbs, Toulouse, saw its struggles in death!
Aye! and share in the sorrow, now foemen no more,
Ye so often who met him in battle before
As warrior meets warrior with musket and brand,
He respected your laws and gave peace to your land :
When the Prussian, all raging with vengeance and hate,
Would have doom'd your fair city to Babylon's fate,
Would have sullied your glories, your trophies o'erthrown,
In humanity's cause he stood bravely alone;
And alone, when they call'd for your emperor's blood,
Indignant, their furious purpose withstood,
And nobly o'ermaster'd their chiefs to forego
The doom they had pass'd on his worthiest foe.
But, alas! when the tears of the nations are dry,
And the pageant that wound to his tomb hath gone by,
Shall the deeds that he did, and the laurels he won,
And the counsels he gave be remember'd by none,
With a grief more enduring, a pang more severe,
Than convulsed his fair Queen as she bent o'er his bier, And felt, in her sorrow, the memories blend
Of the soldier! the statesman! the mentor! and friend!
And well may she treasure the memory deep
In her heart, of the warrior who sleeps the long sleep;
Looming far o'er the distance dire omens arise,
Of discord and danger to startle men's eyes;
Dark spirits abroad sound the tocsin of strife,
And with glory and vengeance all rumours are rife ;
Where the demon of hate waves his fiery brand,
The horizon glares wild of a neighbouring land,
And replumed are the wings of the eagle that flew
In dismay from the carnage of red Waterloo!
But profane not his spirit by doubt! Not in vain
Shall that terrible day be fought over again :
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