DAGWORTH, Stop, brave Sir Walter; let me drop a tear, I'll fight and weep, 'tis in my country's cause; I'll weep meadows, That murmur down their pebbly channels, and Spend their sweet lives to do their country service: Then shall England's verdure shoot, her fields shall smile, Her ships shall sing across the foaming sea, SIR WALTER. Well, let the trumpet sound, and the drum beat; Or I lie stretched upon the field of death. [Exeunt. SCENE. In the Camp. Several of the Warriors met at the King's Tent with a Minstrel, who sings the following Song: SONS of Trojan Brutus, clothed in war, In sickly darkness like a dim eclipse, Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy They landed in firm array upon the rocks "Be thou our mother and our nurse," they said; "Our children's mother, and thou shalt be our grave, The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful powers." Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons Our fathers move in firm array to battle; The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore, Spoiled of their verdure. Oh how oft have they Defied the storm that howlèd o'er their heads! Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view The mighty dead: giant bodies streaming blood, Dread visages frowning in silent death. Then Brutus spoke, inspired; our fathers sit Hear ye the voice of Brutus-"The flowing waves Of time come rolling o'er my breast," he said; "And my heart labours with futurity. Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea. "Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west. Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam Like eagles for the prey; nor shall the young Crave or be heard; for plenty shall bring forth, Cities shall sing, and vales in rich array Shall laugh, whose fruitful laps bend down with fulness. "Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, spears. “Liberty shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion, PROLOGUE INTENDED FOR A DRAMATIC PIECE OF KING EDWARD THE FOURTH. H for a voice like thunder, and a tongue the senses When Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness, Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed PROLOGUE TO KING JOHN.1 J WUSTICE hath heaved a sword to plunge in Albion's breast t; For Albion's sins are crimson-dyed, And the red scourge follows her desolate sons. Then Patriot rose; full oft did Patriot rise, When Tyranny hath stained fair Albion's breast With her own children's gore. Round his majestic feet deep thunders roll; Each heart does tremble, and each knee grows slack. The stars of heaven tremble; the roaring voice of war, The trumpet, calls to battle. Brother in brother's blood Must bathe, rivers of death. O land most hapless! O beauteous island, how forsaken! Weep from thy silver fountains, weep from thy gentle rivers! In Blake's volume this prologue is printed as prose. There seems, however, to be no reason for such a course, as it is in fact loose blank verse-not at all more loose than in other instances. I therefore print this as verse, and in like manner the fragment named Samson. Two other pieces, named The Couch of Death and Contemplation, might, without much difficulty, be treate in the same way; but on the whole they may rather be regarded as rhapsodic prose, and are therefore omitted here. D |