Of the literary history of “The Battaile of Agincourt” there is little to be said. It was first published in 1627, along with “Nimphidia,” “The Shepheard’s Sirena,” and others of Drayton’s best pieces. It was accompanied by three copies of congratulatory verse, reprinted here, the most remarkable of which is that proceeding from the pen of Ben Jonson, who admits that some had accounted him no friend to Drayton, and whose encomiums are to our apprehension largely flavoured with irony. Drayton, in his “Epistle to Reynolds,” which Jonson must have seen, had compared him to Seneca and Plautus,[*] and Jonson seems to burlesque the compliment by comparing Drayton himself to every poet whom he had ever imitated, until his single person seems an epitome of all Parnassus. The poem and its companions had another edition in 1631, since which time it has been included in every edition of Drayton’s works, but has never till now been published by itself. Even here it is graced with a satellite, the splendid Ballad of Agincourt (“To my Frinds the Camber-Britans and theyr Harp”), originally published in “Poemes lyric and pastoral,” probably about 1605. This stirring strain, always admired, has attracted additional notice in the present day as the metrical prototype of Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade,” which, in our estimation, fails to rival its model. The lapses of both poets may well be excused on the ground of the difficulty of the metre, but Drayton has the additional apology of the “brave neglect” which so correct a writer as Pope accounted a virtue in Homer, but which Tennyson never had the nerve to permit himself.
Comparisons between modern and ancient poets must necessarily be very imperfect; yet our Drayton might not inaptly be termed the English Theocritus. If not so distinctly superior to every other English pastoral poet as Theocritus was to every other Greek, he yet stands in the front rank. He is utterly free from affectation, the great vice of pastoral poetry; his love of the country is sincere; his perception of natural phenomena exquisite; his shepherds and shepherdesses real swains and lasses; he has happily varied the conventional form of the pastoral by a felicitous lyrical treatment. Paradoxical as it may appear, Drayton was partly enabled to approach Theocritus so nearly by knowing him so imperfectly. Had he been acquainted with him otherwise than through Virgil, he would probably have been unable to refrain from direct imitation; but as matters stand, instead of a poet striving to write as Theocritus wrote in Greek, we have one actually writing as Theocritus would have written in English. But the most remarkable point of contact between Drayton and Theocritus is that both are epical as well as pastoral poets. Two of the Idylls of Theocritus are believed to be fragments of an epic on the exploits of Hercules; and in the enumeration of his lost works, amid others of the same description, mention is made of the “Heroines,” a curious counterpart of Drayton’s “Heroicall Epistles.” Had these works survived, we might not improbably have found Drayton surpassing his prototype in epic as much as he falls below him in pastoral; for the more exquisite art of the Sicilian could hardly have made amends for the lack of that national pride and enthusiastic patriotism which had died out of his age, but which ennobled the strength and upbore the weakness of the author of “The Battaile of Agincourt.”
RICHARD GARNETT.
To you those Noblest of Gentlemen, of these Renowned Kingdomes of Great Britaine: who in these declining times, haue yet in your braue bosomes the sparkes of that sprightly fire, of your couragious Ancestors; and to this houre retaine the seedes of their magnanimitie and Greatnesse, who out of the vertue of your mindes, loue and cherish neglected Poesie, the delight of Blessed soules, and the language of Angels. To you are these my Poems dedicated,
By your truly affectioned Seruant,
MICHAELL DRAYTON.
VPON
THE BATTAILE
OF AGINCOVRT, WRITTEN
BY HIS DEARE FRIEND
MICHAEL DRAYTON
ESQVIRE.
Had Henryes name beene onely met in Prose,
Recorded by the humble wit of those,
Who write of lesse then Kings: who victory,
As calmely mention, as a Pedigree,
The French, alike with vs, might view his name
His actions too, and not confesse a shame:
Nay, grow at length, so boldly troublesome,
As, to dispute if they were ouercome.
But thou hast wakte their feares: thy fiercer hand
Hath made their shame as lasting, as their land.
By thee againe they are compeld to knowe
How much of Fate is in an English foe.
They bleede afresh by thee, and thinke the harme
Such; they could rather wish, t’were Henryes arme:
Who thankes thy painfull quill; and holds it more
To be thy Subiect now, then King before.
By thee he conquers yet; when eu’ry word
Yeelds him a fuller honour, then his sword.
Strengthens his action against time: by thee,
Hee victory, and France, doth hold in fee.
So well obseru’d he is, that eu’ry thing
Speakes him not onely English, but a King.
And France, in this, may boast her fortunate
That shee was worthy of so braue a hate.
Her suffring is her gayne. How well we see
The Battaile labour’d worthy him, and thee,
Where, wee may Death discouer with delight,
And entertaine a pleasure from a fight.
Where wee may see how well it doth become
The brau’ry of a Prince to ouercome.
What Power is a Poet: that can add
A life to Kings, more glorious, then they had.
For what of Henry, is vnsung by thee,
Henry doth want of his Eternity.
I. VAVGHAN.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. MICHAELL DRAYTON VPON THESE HIS POEMS.
SONNET.
What lofty Trophyes of eternall Fame,
England may vaunt thou do’st erect to her,
Yet forced to confesse, (yea blush for shame,)
That she no Honour doth on thee confer.
How it would become her, would she learne to knowe
Once to requite thy Heauen-borne Art and Zeale,
Or at the least her selfe but thankfull showe
Her ancient Glories that do’st still reueale:
Sing thou of Loue, thy straines (like powerfull Charmes)
Enrage the bosome with an amorous fire,
And when againe thou lik’st to sing of Armes
The Coward thou with Courage do’st inspire:
But when thou com’st to touch our Sinfull Times,
Then Heauen far more then Earth speakes in thy Rimes.
IOHN REYNOLDS.
THE VISION OF BEN. IONSON, ON THE MVSES OF HIS FRIEND M. DRAYTON.
It hath beene question’d, Michael, if I bee
A Friend at all; or, if at all, to thee:
Because, who make the question, haue not seene
Those ambling visits, passe in verse, betweene
Thy Muse, and mine, as they expect. ’Tis true:
You haue not writ to me, nor I to you;
And, though I now begin, ’tis not to rub
Hanch against Hanch, or raise a riming Club
About the towne: this reck’ning I will pay,
Without conferring symboles. This ‘s my day.
It was no Dreame! I was awake, and saw!
Lend me thy voyce, O Fame, that I may draw
Wonder to truth! and haue my Vision hoorld,
Hot from thy trumpet, round, about the world.
I saw a Beauty from the Sea to rise,
That all Earth look’d on; and that earth, all Eyes!
It cast a beame as when the chear-full Sun
Is fayre got vp, and day some houres begun!
And fill’d an Orbe as circular, as heauen!
The Orbe was cut forth into Regions seauen.
And those so sweet, and well proportion’d parts,
As it had beene the circle of the Arts!
When, by thy bright Ideas standing by,
I found it pure, and perfect Poesy,
There read I, streight, thy learned Legends three,
Heard the soft ayres, between our Swaynes & thee,
Which made me thinke, the old Theocritus,
Or Rurall Virgil come, to pipe to vs!
But then, thy’epistolar Heroick Songs,
Their loues, their quarrels, iealousies, and wrongs
Did all so strike me, as I cry’d, who can
With vs be call’d, the Naso, but this man?
And looking vp, I saw Mineruas fowle,
Pearch’d ouer head, the wise Athenian Owle:
I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldst try
Like him, to make the ayre, one volary:
And I had stil’d thee, Orpheus, but before
My lippes could forme the voyce, I heard that Rore,
And Rouze, the Marching of a mighty force,
Drums against Drums, the neighing of the Horse,
The Fights, the Cryes, and wondring at the Iarres
I saw, and read, it was thy Barons Warres!
O, how in those, dost thou instruct these times,
That Rebells actions, are but valiant crimes!
And caried, though with shoute, and noyse, confesse
A wild, and an authoriz’d wickednesse!
Sayst thou so, Lucan? But thou scornst to stay
Vnder one title. Thou hast made thy way
And flight about the Ile, well neare, by this,
In thy admired Periégesis,
Or vniuersall circumduction
Of all that reade thy Poly-Olbyon.
That reade it? that are rauish’d! such was I
With euery song, I sweare, and so would dye:
But that I heare, againe, thy Drum to beate
A better cause, and strike the brauest heate
That euer yet did fire the English blood!
Our right in France! if ritely vnderstood.
There, thou art Homer! Pray thee vse the stile
Thou hast deseru’d: And let me reade the while
Thy Catalogue of Ships, exceeding his,
Thy list of aydes, and force, for so it is:
The Poets act! and for his Country’s sake
Braue are the Musters, that the Muse will make.
And when he ships them where to vse their Armes,
How do his trumpets breath! What loud alarmes!
Looke, how we read the Spartans were inflam’d
With bold Tyrtæus verse, when thou art nam’d,
So shall our English Youth vrge on, and cry
An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or dye.
This booke! it is a Catechisme to fight,
And will be bought of euery Lord, and Knight,
That can but reade; who cannot, may in prose
Get broken peeces, and fight well by those.
The miseries of Margaret the Queene
Of tender eyes will more be wept, then seene:
I feele it by mine owne, that ouer flow,
And stop my sight, in euery line I goe.
But then refreshed, with thy Fayerie Court,
I looke on Cynthia, and Sirenas sport,
As, on two flowry Carpets, that did rise,
And with their grassie greene restor’d mine eyes.
Yet giue mee leaue, to wonder at the birth
Of thy strange Moon-Calfe, both thy straine of mirth,
And Gossip-got acquaintance, as, to vs
Thou hadst brought Lapland, or old Cobalus,
Empusa, Lamia, or some Monster, more
Then Affricke knew, or the full Grecian shore!
I gratulate it to thee, and thy Ends,
To all thy vertuous, and well chosen Friends,
Onely my losse is, that I am not there:
And, till I worthy am to wish I were,
I call the world, that enuies mee, to see
If I can be a Friend, and Friend to thee.
THE BATTAILE OF AGINCOVRT.
1: The law Salique was, that women should not inherite; which
law, Edward the third, by his right to the Crowne by his mother,
cancelled with his sword: for so much as at that time made way to his
clayme, though in France that law bee inuiolable.
Ceas’d was the Thunder, of those Drummes which wak’d
Th’affrighted French their miseries to view,
At Edwards name, which to that houre still quak’d,
Their Salique Tables to the ground that threw,
Yet were the English courages not slak’d,
But the same Bowes, and the same Blades they drew,
With the same Armes, those weapons to aduance,
Which lately lopt the Flower de liz of France.
2: Henry the 4. so named of a Town in Lincolne Shiere, where he
was borne.
Henry the fift, that man made out of fire,
Th’Imperiall Wreath plac’d on his Princely browe;
His Lyons courage stands not to enquire
Which way olde Henry came by it; or howe
At Pomfret Castell Richard should expire:
What’s that to him? He hath the Garland now;
Let Bullingbrook beware how he it wan,
For Munmouth meanes to keepe it, if he can.
3: Henry the fift borne at Munmouth in Wales. Dowglas in that
battaile slew three in the Kings coat Armour.
That glorious day, which his great Father got,
Vpon the Percyes; calling to their ayde
The valiant Dowglass, that Herculian Scot,
When for his Crowne at Shrewsbury they playde,
Had quite dishartned eu’ry other plot,
And all those Tempests quietly had layde,
That not a cloud did to this Prince appeare,
No former King had seene a skye so cleere.
4: Wickliffe a learned Diuine, and the greatest Protestant of
those times.
Yet the rich Clergy felt a fearefull Rent,
In the full Bosome of their Church (whilst she
A Monarchesse, immeasurably spent,
Lesse then she was, and thought she might not be:)
By Wickclif and his followers; to preuent
The growth of whose opinions, and to free
That foule Aspersion, which on her they layde,
She her strongst witts must stirre vp to her ayde.
5: A Parliament at Leicester.
When presently a Parliament is calld
To sett things steddy, that stood not so right,
But that thereby the poore might be inthral’d,
Should they be vrged by those that were of might,
That in his Empire, equitie enstauld,
It should continue in that perfect plight;
Wherefore to Lester, he th’Assembly drawes,
There to Inact those necessary Lawes.
6
In which one Bill (mongst many) there was red,
Against the generall, and superfluous waste
Of temporall Lands, (the Laity that had fed)
Vpon the Houses of Religion caste,
Which for defence might stand the Realme in sted,
Where it most needed were it rightly plac’t;
Which made those Church-men generally to feare,
For all this calme, some tempest might be neare.
7
And being right skilfull, quickly they forsawe,
No shallow braines this bus’nesse went about:
Therefore with cunning they must cure this flawe;
For of the King they greatly stood in doubt,
Lest him to them, their opposites should drawe,
Some thing must be thrust in, to thrust that out:
And to this end they wisely must prouide
One, this great Engine, Clearkly that could guide.
> 8: Henry Chichley succeeding Arundell (late deceased) in that
See.
Chichley, that sate on Canterburies See,
A man well spoken, grauely stout, and wise,
The most select, (then thought of that could be,)
To act what all the Prelacie diuise;
(For well they knew, that in this bus’nesse, he
Would to the vtmost straine his faculties;)
Him lift they vp, with their maine strength, to proue
By some cleane slight this Lybell to remoue.
9: So they termed it as not worthy of a better tytle.
His braine in labour, gladly foorth would bring
Somewhat, that at this needfull time might fit,
The sprightly humor of this youthfull King,
If his inuention could but light of it;
His working soule proiecteth many a thing,
Vntill at length out of the strength of wit,
He found a warre with France, must be the way
To dash this Bill, else threatning their decay.
10
Whilst vacant mindes sate in their breasts at ease,
And the remembrance of their Conquests past,
Vpon their fansies doth so strongly sease,
As in their teeth, their Cowardise it cast
Rehearsing to them those victorious daies,
The deeds of which, beyond their names should last,
That after ages, reading what was theirs,
Shall hardly thinke, those men had any Heires.
11
And to this point, premeditating well,
A speech, (which chanc’d, the very pinne to cleaue)
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 135