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And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt,

In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French General lay,
With all his

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the King sending.
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
“ Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the Sun

By fame been raised.
And for myself," quoth he,
“This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me!
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.
Poictiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell ;

No less our skill is,

Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopp'd the French Lilies.”
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his hench-men.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone; Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather ;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their billows drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy ;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went-

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding

As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that Duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon St. Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which Fame did not delay,

To England to carry ;

O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again

Such a King Harry.


Miss MITFORD. [Mary Russell Mitford was born at Alresford, Hants, in 1789. Her father, Dr. Mitford, sometimes confounded with the author of The History of Greece," was for many years chairman of the Reading bench of magistrates, and lived to the age of 82. His early career—though it is said " he encouraged his daughter's talents by all the appliances that wealth and taste could furnish,” -appears to have been one of “irregularities and extravagances,". and he soon ran through a sum of ten thousand pounds which his daughter, when ten years of age, gained as a prize in the lottery; but it seems more than probable that the doctor himself purchased the ticket in his child's name "for luck.” Miss Mitford's first prose sketches appeared in the annuals, and she subsequently.

wrote those delightful rural pictures for “The Ladies' Magazine," which were afterwards published in 1832) under the title of "Our Vil. lage.” Her tragedies, the first of which appeared in 1823, all of which evince highly intellectual powers, are “Julian, Foscari," “Charles I.," and "Rienzi," but the last only succeeded on the stage. In 1842 she received a pension from the Civil List, and lived in elegant retirement; frequently, however, visited by literary celebrities at her cottage in Berkshire. Her last work, " Recollections of a Literary Life,” is very interesting and full of curious details anent "men, women, and books." She died in 1855, in her 77th year.]


Rie. Son.
Methinks this high solemnity might well
Have claimed thy presence. A great ruler's heir
Should be familiar in the people's eyes;
Live on their tongues; take root within their hearts;
Win woman's smiles by honest courtesy,
And force man's tardier praise by bold desert.
So, when the chief shall die, the general love
May hail his successor. But thou where wast thou ?
If with thy bride-

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Ang. I have not seen her.-Tribune!
Thou wav'st away the word with such a scorn
As I poured poison in thine ear.-Already
Dost weary of the title ?

Rie. Wherefore should I ?
Ang. Thou art ambitious.
Rie. Granted.

Ang. And wouldst be
A king
Rie. There thou mistak'st.—

A king !-Fair son,
Power dwelleth not in sound, and fame hath garlands
Brighter than diadems. I might have been
Anointed, sceptred, crowned—have cast a blaze
Of glory round the old imperial wreath,
The laurel of the Cæsars: but I chose
To master kings, not be one; to direct
The royal puppets at my sovereign will,
And Rome-my Rome, decree !—Tribune ! the Gracchi
Were called so.-Tribune! I will make that name
A word of fear to kings,

Ang. Rienzi !Tribune! Hast thou forgotten, on this very spot How thou didst shake the slumbering soul of Rome With the brave sound of Freedom, till she rose, And from her giant-limbs the shackles dropped, Burst by one mighty throe ? Hadst thou died then, History had crowned thee with a glorious title Deliverer of thy country.

Rie. Well ?

Ang. Alas!
When now thou fall'st, as fall thou must, 'twill be
The common tale of low ambition :-Tyrants
O'erthrown to form a wider tyranny ;
Princes cast down, that thy obscurer house
May rise on nobler ruins.

Řie. Hast thou ended ?
I fain would have mistaken thee-Hast done ?

Ang. No; for, despite thy smothered wrath the voice Of warning truth shall reach thee. Thou to-day

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