| |
| WHAT man-at-arms, or knight | |
| Of doughty deeds in fight,— | |
| What king whose dauntless might | |
| Still lives in story, | |
| Deserves such fame as one | 5 |
| Who, when his sight was gone, | |
| Fought till he fell,—King John, | |
| Bohemia’s glory? | |
| |
| That fatal August day | |
| The French and English lay | 10 |
| Drawn up in dread array, | |
| With bows and lances, | |
| Determined then to try | |
| Which host could bravest die, | |
| Which host would soonest fly,— | 15 |
| England’s or France’s. | |
| |
| The morning light revealed, | |
| On Crécy’s famous field, | |
| Armed with his spear and shield, | |
| This fearless foeman, | 20 |
| Who, with his old blind eyes, | |
| Will for his French allies | |
| Do battle till he dies,— | |
| And fly from no man! | |
| |
| His bridle-rein he tied | 25 |
| To a good knight’s at his side, | |
| Among the French to ride, | |
| That saw astounded | |
| Who with their foremost prest, | |
| His shield before his breast, | 30 |
| His long spear set in rest,— | |
| The trumpet sounded! | |
| |
| Full tilt against their foes, | |
| Where thickest fell the blows, | |
| And war-cries mingling rose, | 35 |
| “St. George!” “St. Denys!” | |
| Driven by the trumpet’s blare | |
| Where most the English dare, | |
| And where the French despair,— | |
| He there and then is! | 40 |
| |
| Up, down, he rode, and thrust; | |
| Unhorsed, knights rolled in dust; | |
| Whom he encounters must | |
| Go down or fly him: | |
| All round the bloody field | 45 |
| Spears rattle on his shield, | |
| But none can make him yield; | |
| Few venture nigh him. | |
| |
| Here, there, he rides until | |
| His horse perforce stands still: | 50 |
| He spurs it, but it will | |
| No longer mind him; | |
| It cannot stir for fright, | |
| So desperate now the fight, | |
| Death on the left, the right, | 55 |
| Before, behind him! | |
| |
| But this, so blind was he, | |
| The old king could not see; | |
| An he had seen, pardie! | |
| His soul delighting | 60 |
| Had faster rained down blows | |
| Upon his puny foes, | |
| And in the dark death-throes | |
| Had gone out fighting! | |
| |
| When the last rout was done, | 65 |
| And when the English won, | |
| They found the brave King John, | |
| Who fought so lately, | |
| Stone dead,—his old blind eyes | |
| Uplooking to the skies, | 70 |
| As he again would rise | |
| And battle greatly! | |
| |
| They bore him to his rest, | |
| His shield upon his breast, | |
| Where blazoned was his crest,— | 75 |
| Three ostrich feathers; | |
| Under, in gold, was seen | |
| The royal words, “ICH DIEN,” | |
| Which most kings now think mean,— | |
| Save in foul weathers! | 80 |
| |
| Not so the Black Prince thought, | |
| Who then at Crécy fought, | |
| And old John’s valor caught, | |
| And was victorious. | |
| “Who serve like him,” quoth he, | 85 |
| “Commend themselves to me; | |
| Such royal servants be | |
| Forever glorious!” | |
| |
