A Household Book of English Poetry: Selected and Arranged with Notes
General
A Household Book of English Poetry: Selected and Arranged with Notes
American poetry; English poetry
A steed, a steed, of matchless speed,
A sword of metal keen;
All else to noble hearts is dross,
All else on earth is mean.
The neighing of the war-horse proud, 5
The rolling of the drum,
The clangour of the trumpet loud,
Be sounds from heaven that come.
And oh! the thundering press of knights,
Whenas their war-cries swell, 10
May toll from heaven an angel bright,
And rouse a fiend from hell.
Then mount, then mount, brave gallants all,
And don your helms amain;
Death’s couriers, Fame and Honour, call 15
Us to the field again.
No shrewish tears shall fill our eye,
When the sword-hilt’s in our hand;
Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sigh
For the fairest in the land. 20
Let piping swain and craven wight
Thus weep and puling cry;
Our business is like men to fight,
And, like to heroes, die!
_Anon._
C
_THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD._
Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl,
To purify the air;
Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,
On bracelets of thy hair.
The trumpet makes the echo hoarse, 5
And wakes the louder drum;
Expense of grief gains no remorse,
When sorrow should be dumb:
For I must go, where lazy peace
Will hide her drowsy head; 10
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead.
But first I’ll chide thy cruel theft;
Can I in war delight,
Who, being of my heart bereft,
Can have no heart to fight? 15
Thou know’st the sacred laws of old
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stol’n away.
Thy payment shall but double be; 20
Oh then with speed resign
My own seducèd heart to me,
Accompanied with thine.
_Sir William Davenant._
CI
_LOYALTY CONFINED._
Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;
Swell, curlèd waves, high as Jove’s roof;
Your incivility doth show
That innocence is tempest-proof:
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.
That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me,
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty: 10
Locks, bars, and solitude together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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