THE PLUMES OF CRÉCY.[1]
Reading edition
THE PLUMES OF CRÉCY.[1]
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
I was reading of kings and nobles, Tourney and knightly gage, Till the summer twilight faded From Froissart's ancient page. Then in the darkened parlor I saw a fairer sight— The brave old King whose valor makes The shame of Crécy light. He stood on the little hill-side, Taller than all his peers, Quite blind, but with eyes uplifted, Hoary with many years. Still wearing his golden armor, Crowned with his royal crown, Leaning upon the sword with which He struck the Soldan down. And high in his gleaming helmet Three ostrich plumes, snow white— From the Paynim's brow he tore them In some Jabluna fight. All scarred with Carpathian arrows, His heart with Honor flames: "Advance!" he cries, "and fight for France, Bohemia, and St. James!" But two of his knights staid by him, And little did they say; The blind old King talked with his heart, And that was in the fray. Alas! alas! He heard too soon The sounds of shameful flight; "Thank God," he sighed, "Bohemia's blind!"— He would not see this sight. "Now, friends, one more good deed I claim, Last service for your lord: I ask a soldier's grave, good knights; I'll dig it with my sword. My horse's reins tie fast to yours— A friend on either hand— Then ride straight on to where you see The English archers stand." They kissed their King most tenderly, Then three as one they went Down to the field of certain death With proud and glad content. They cut a path to where Prince Charles, The King's son, stood at bay: 'Twas spirits, and not flesh and blood, For honor fought that day. The three white plumes above the gloom Gleamed like a snowy wing; Victors and vanquished paused to watch The blind Bohemian King. Pierced oft by arrows, stained with blood, The Soldan's plumes still wave, Until Bohemia's sword had cut Honor's unsullied grave. Next day, when English heralds sought Over the fatal field Trampled lilies and flags of France, They found upon his shield The blind old King of Bohemia, Son and friends by his side; But torn and stained the snowy plumes That long had been his pride. Then said the Black Prince over him, "O knight, the bravest, best, Thy plumes are dyed in hero's blood— Henceforth they are my crest!" And still they wave o'er England's crown, And teach the young and brave, When all is lost but honor, then Valor digs Honor's grave.
JANUARY.
FEBRUARY.
MARCH.
APRIL.
MAY.
JUNE.
JULY.
AUGUST.
SEPTEMBER.
OCTOBER.
NOVEMBER.
DECEMBER.
