English Songs and Ballads Part 62

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample s.p.a.ce, For there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.

Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down!

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle s.h.i.+eld; So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids!

Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades!

Thou, sun, s.h.i.+ne on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide!

Our glorious _semper eadem_! the banner of our pride!

The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's ma.s.sy fold-- The parting gleam of suns.h.i.+ne kissed that haughty scroll of gold: Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be.

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay, That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spread-- High on St. Michael's Mount it shone--it shone on Beachy Head; Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern s.h.i.+re, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.

The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves; O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge--the rangers of Beaulieu.

Right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night from Bristol town; And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o'er hanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red light: The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing street: And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight, for wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went; And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent: Southward, for Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth; High on black Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill; Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

LADY CLARE

LORD TENNYSON

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth'd were they: They two will wed the morrow morn; G.o.d's blessing on the day!

'He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, 'Who was this that went from thee?'

'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, 'To-morrow he weds with me.'

'O G.o.d be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse, 'That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.'

'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?'

Said Lady Clare, 'that ye speak so wild?'

'As G.o.d's above,' said Alice the nurse, 'I speak the truth: you are my child.

'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread!

I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.'

'Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,' she said, 'if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 'But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.'

'If I'm a beggar born,' she said, 'I will speak out, for I dare not lie.

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 'But keep the secret all ye can.'

She said, 'Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.'

'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice the nurse, 'The man will cleave unto his right.'

'And he shall have it,' the lady replied, 'Tho' I should die to-night.'

'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.'

'O mother, mother, mother,' she said, 'So strange it seems to me.

'Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.'

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!

Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?'

'If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,' she said, 'And not the Lady Clare.'

'Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 'For I am yours in word and in deed.

Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 'Your riddle is hard to read.'

O and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail: She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood; 'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, 'the next in blood--

'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, 'the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.'

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH

In her ear he whispers gaily, 'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.'

She replies, in accents fainter, 'There is none I love like thee.'

He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she.

He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof.

'I can make no marriage present: Little can I give my wife.

Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.'

They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand: Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land.

From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, 'Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy n.o.bles dwell.'

So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state.

All he shows her makes him dearer: Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days.

O but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come.

Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before: Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door.

And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall.

And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, 'All of this is mine and thine.'