SCENE IV.

King. Fie, lords! it slurs our name;—the town is succour'd. 'Twas dull neglect to let them pass: a blot Upon our English camp; where vigilance Should be the watch-word. Which way got they in?

Sir W. By sea, as we do learn, my gracious liege?

King. Where was our fleet then? does it ride the ocean In idle mockery? It should float to awe These Frenchmen here. How are they stored, my lord?

Harc. Barely, as it should seem. Their crazy vessel, Driven among the rocks, that skirt the shore, Let in the waves so fast upon the cargo, The better half is either sunk or spoilt. They scarce can hold another day, my liege.

King. Thanks to the sea for't—not our Admiral. They brave it, stubborn, to the very last:— But they shall smart for't shortly; smart severely. Meantime, prepare we for our Queen; who comes From England, deck'd in conquest. Say, Lord Harcourt, Are all prepared to welcome her arrival?

Harc. All, my dread liege. The beach is thickly lined With English soldiery, in ardent watch, Fixing their eyes upon the bark, which bears Our royal mistress. It was hoped, ere this, 'T had reach'd the harbour.— [Grand Flourish. Hark! the queen has landed.

King. Do you then, good my lord! escort her hither. [Exit Harcourt. Sir Walter Manny?

Sir W. Ay, my gracious sovereign.

King. Guard well this packet. When the Governor Of this same peevish town shall call a parley, Break you it up, and from it speak our pleasure. Here are the terms—the only terms—on which We do allow them to capitulate.

Oh, welcome! welcome! We shall give you here Rude martial fare, and soldiers' entertainment.

Queen. Royal sir! Well met, and happily. I learn your labours Draw to a glorious end.—When you return, Besides the loyal subjects who would greet you, The Scottish king, my lord! waits your arrival; Who, somewhat partial to his neighbour's land, Did come an uninvited guest among us. I doubt he'll think us over-hospitable; For, dreading his too quick departure from us, I have made bold to guard him in the Tower: And hither have I sail'd, my noble liege! To glad you with the tidings.

King. My sweet warrior! We will dispatch our work here, then for England. Calais will soon be ours;—of that hereafter. Think we, to-day, on nought but revelry. You, madam, shall diffuse your influence Throughout our camp.—Strike, there, our martial music! For want of better, good Philippa, take A soldier's noisy concert. Strike! I say.

War has still its melody;—— When blows come thick, and arrows fly, When the soldier marches o'er The crimson field, knee-deep in gore, By carnage, and grim death, surrounded, And groans of dying men confounded;— If the warlike drum he hear, And the shrill trumpet strike his ear. Roused by the spirit-stirring tones, Music's influence he owns; His lusty heart beats quick, and high; War has still its melody. But, when the hard fought day is done, And the battle's fairly won; Oh! then he trolls the jolly note, In triumph, thro' his rusty throat; And all the story of the strife He carols to the merry fife. His comrades join, their feats to tell; The chorus then begins to swell; Loud martial music rends the sky: This is the soldier's melody.