Yet in all things meet for a kingly man

Himself did he approve;

And the nightingale through his prison-wall
Taught him both lore and love.

For once, when the bird's song drew him close
To the opened window-pane,

In her bower beneath a lady stood,

A light of life to his sorrowful mood,
Like a lily amid the rain.

And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note,

He framed a sweeter Song,

More sweet than ever a poet's heart

Gave yet to the English tongue.

She was a lady of royal blood;

And when, past sorrow and teen,

He stood where still through his crownless years

His Scottish realm had been,

At Scone were the happy lovers crowned,

A heart-wed King and Queen.

But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, And song be turned to moan,

And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate,
When the tempest-waves of a troubled State
Are beating against a throne.

Yet well they loved; and the god of Love,
Whom well the King had sung,

Might find on the earth no truer hearts
His lowliest swains among.

'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.

(Dead March. 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,