The moon I walk'd abroad, when all had pitch'd 161
Their tents, and all were still;
I heard a blooming youth singing a song
He had compos'd, and at each pause he wip'd
His dropping eyes. The ditty was, 'if he 165
Return'd victorious, he should wed a maiden
Fairer than snow, and rich as midsummer.'
Another wept, and wish'd health to his father.
I chid them both, but gave them noble hopes. 169
These are the minds that glory in the battle,
And leap and dance to hear the trumpet sound.
King. Sir Thomas Dagworth, be thou near our person;
Thy heart is richer than the vales of France: 173
I will not part with such a man as thee.
If Philip came arm'd in the ribs of death,
And shook his mortal dart against my head,
Thou'dst laugh his fury into nerveless shame! 177
Go now, for thou art suited to the work,
Throughout the camp; enflame the timorous,
Blow up the sluggish into ardour, and
Confirm the strong with strength, the weak inspire, 181
And wing their brows with hope and expectation:
Then to our tent return, and meet to council. [Exit Dagworth.
Chand. That man's a hero in his closet, and more
A hero to the servants of his house 185
Than to the gaping world; he carries windows
In that enlarged breast of his, that all
May see what's done within.
Prince. He is a genuine Englishman, my Chandos, 189
And hath the spirit of Liberty within him.
Forgive my prejudice, Sir John; I think
My Englishmen the bravest people on
The face of the earth. 193
Chand. Courage, my Lord, proceeds from self-dependence.
Teach man to think he's a free agent,
Give but a slave his liberty, he'll shake
Off sloth, and build himself a hut, and hedge 197
A spot of ground; this he'll defend; 'tis his
By right of nature: thus set in action.
He will still move onward to plan conveniences,
'Til! glory fires his breast to enlarge his castle; 201
While the poor slave drudges all day, in hope
To rest at night.
King. O Liberty, how glorious art thou!
I see thee hov'ring o'er my army, with 205
Thy wide-stretch'd plumes; I see thee
Lead them on to battle;
I see thee blow thy golden trumpet, while
Thy sons shout the strong shout of victory! 209
O noble Chandos, think thyself a gardener,
