'Twas in the Charterhouse of Perth,

In the fair-lit Death-chapelle,

That the slain King's corpse on bier was laid With chaunt and requiem-knell.

And all with royal wealth of balm

Was the body purified;

And none could trace on the brow and lips

The death that he had died.

In his robes of state he lay asleep
With orb and sceptre in hand;

And by the crown he wore on his throne
Was his kingly forehead spann’d.

And, girls, 'twas a sweet sad thing to see
How the curling golden hair,

As in the day of the poet's youth,

From the King's crown clustered there.

And if all had come to pass in the brain
That throbbed beneath those curls,
Then Scots had said in the days to come
That this their soil was a different home
And a different Scotland, girls!

And the Queen sat by him night and day,
And oft she knelt in prayer,

All wan and pale in the widow's veil
That shrouded her shining hair.

And the month of March wore nigh to its end,
And still was the death-pall spread;

For she would not bury her slaughtered lord
Till his slayers all were dead.

And now of their dooms dread tidings came,

And of torments fierce and dire;

And nought she spake,- she had ceased to speak,— But her eyes were a soul on fire.

But when I told her the bitter end

Of the stern and just award,

She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times
She kissed the lips of her lord.

And then she said, "My King, they are dead!" And she knelt on the chapel-floor,

And whispered low with a strange proud smile,
"James, James, they suffered more!"

Last she stood up to her queenly height,
But she shook like an autumn leaf,
As though the fire wherein she burned
Then left her body, and all were turned
To winter of life-long grief.

And "O James!" she said, -"My James!" she said,

"Alas for the woeful thing,

That a poet true and a friend of man,

In desperate days of bale and ban,

Should needs be born a King!

KING HENRY THE SIXTH

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

THE death of Henry V. (1422) left the kingdom with no strong man to rule it, since the heir to the throne was an infant of nine months. The boy was carefully educated, and became both good and learned, but he lacked energy and determination. He was much influenced by his relatives, the Beauforts. Their efforts to bring the French wars to a close, even on humiliating terms, rendered them and the king hateful to the people. Discontent found expression in Jack Cade's Rebellion (1451), a popular demonstration quite as formidable as the Peasants' Revolt, and as easily quelled.

When the king lapsed into imbecility (1453), the "want of governance" could no longer be endured. Even the birth of Prince Edward could not restore confidence in the House of Lancaster. London and the commons declared for Edward of York, and he was crowned king in 1461. At the battle of Towton Field, fought that same year, the Lancastrians were ruined. Henry, Queen Margaret, and the little prince found refuge in Scotland. After many vicissitudes, the unhappy Henry was murdered in the Tower.

PART I. ACT I

SCENE I.

(Dead March.

Westminster Abbey.

Enter the Funeral of King Henry the Fifth, attended on by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France; the Duke of Gloster, Protector; the Duke of Exeter, the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, Heralds, etc.)

Bedford. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

Comets, importing change of times and states,
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

And with them scourge the bad revolting stars
That have consented unto Henry's death!

King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!
England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.

Gloster. England ne'er had a king until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command:

His brandish'd sword did blind men with his 1 beams:
His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings;
His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire,
More dazzled and drove back his enemies

Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.
What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech;
He ne'er lift up his hand but conquerèd.

Exeter. We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?

Henry is dead and never shall revive:

Upon a wooden coffin we attend,
And death's dishonourable victory
We with our stately presence glorify,
Like captives bound to a triumphant car.
What! shall we curse the planets of mishap
That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?
Or shall we think the subtle-witted French
Conjurors and sorcerers, that afraid of him
By magic verses have contriv'd his end?

Messenger. My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

Of loss, of slaughter and discomfiture:
Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans,
Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.

Bedford. What say'st thou, man, before dead
Henry's corse?

Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns
Will make him burst his lead and rise from death.
Gloster. Is Paris lost? is Rouen yielded up?

If Henry were recall'd to life again,

These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.

Exeter. How were they lost? what treachery was us'd?

Messenger. No treachery; but want of men and

money.

Amongst the soldiers this is muttered, —

That here you maintain several factions,

And whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought,
You are disputing of your generals :

One would have lingering wars with little cost;
Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings;
A third thinks, without expense at all,

By guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd.
Awake, awake, English nobility!
Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot:
Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms;
Of England's coat one-half is cut away.

Exeter. Were our tears wanting to this funeral,
These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.