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as well as of many of the French men-at-arms; "the throng was such that one overthrew another; and also among the Englishmen there were certain of the footmen with great knives-(these were Welch)—that went in among the men of arms, and killed many of them as they lay on the ground, both earls, barons, knights, and esquires.'

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Thus perished the miserable mercenaries who were to have annihilated the bowmen of England. It formed no part of the conditions of their engagements that they were to be cut down at the caprice of their employers, and they might therefore justly complain of perfidy and cruelty; but their trade was in blood-they had sold themselves to fight-not in their country's cause, but in a quarrel in which they had no concern whatever, and therefore it mattered little from which party they received the natural reward of their vocation.

This was the second grand error of the day; the utter absence of all order and discipline was, as we have seen, the first. The second, their murder of the Genoese; but the third, resulting, indeed, from a better source, that of impetuous valour, was the last, for it was decisive and fatal to those who committed it. Thus the centre of the French army was thrown into a hopeless mass of confusion; without attempting to restore order, the fiery Alençon determined at all hazards to attack the Prince of Wales. The last columns of his division were come up with the nobles of his household, arrayed under his banner, which was borne by a distinguished knight, Jaques d'Estracelles, but after the failure of the first attack it was judged imprudent to renew the action until the arrival of Philip; however, the rash and imperious Alençon brooked no such delay; he determined to commence the assault at the very instant, and commanded Jaques d'Estracelles to lead on to the attack. warrior, renowned for numberless proofs of courage, had availed him of a momentary interval of repose to remove his helmet, and was reviving himself with a little fresh air, for the heat was oppressive in the extreme; he represented to the prince that any attempt to expel the English from the intrenchments with cavalry would inevitably expose him to destruction, but d'Alençon refused to listen to such advice, exclaiming impatiently,

"Remettez votre bacinet; et marchez !"


"Puisqu'à la bataille sommes venus," answered Estracelles, "je le mettrai, mais jamais ne sera osté par moi !" and he immediately advanced with the division under his banner against the Prince of Wales. This movement must have taken place on the extreme right of the French army, and according to all likelihood on the top of the plateau. Hollingshed thus relates the particulars of this second attack of the French: "The Earl of Alençon came right orderly to the battle, and fought with the Englishmen, and so did the Earl of Flanders on his part. These two lords coasted the English archers, and came to the prince's battle and there fought right valiantly a long time. The French king perceiving where their banners stood would fain have come to them, but could not by reason of a great hedge of archers that stood betwixt him and them. This was a perilous battle and sore foughten: there were few taken to mercy, for the Englishmen had so determined in the morning. Certain Frenchmen and Almains perforce opened the archers of the prince's battle and came to fight with the men-at-arms hand to hand. Then the second battle of the Englishmen came to succour the prince's battle, and not

before it was time, for they of that battle had as then enough to do, in so much that some which were about him, as the Earl of Northampton and others, sent to the king, where he stood aloft on a windmill hill, requiring him to advance forward and come to their aid, they being as then sore laid to of their enemies. The king hereupon demanded if his son were slain, hurt, or felled to the earth.


"No,' said the knight that brought the message, but he is sore matched.'

“Well,' said the king, 'return to him and them that sent you, and say to them that they send no more to me for any adventure that falleth so long as my son is alive, for I will that this journey be his, with the honour thereof.'

"With this answer the knight returned, which greatly encouraged them to do their best to win the spurs, being half abashed in that they had sent to the king for aid."

The French authors make the danger of the prince to have been extreme; according to them, Alençon's charge carried all before it. The French troops overturned every thing which opposed their passage, and penetrated up to the prince himself. Surrounded and thrown to the earth, he would infallibly have fallen into their hands, had it not been for a knight of Norman origin, named Richard de Beaumont, who carried the great banner of Wales. This knight threw his vast standard over the prostrate prince, "Mit ses pieds dessus, prit son espée à deux mains, et fit si bien qu'il empêcha son petit maître d'être tué," so says the "Histoire des Mayeurs d'Abbeville;" but the anecdote seems at variance with the answer of the knight to the king's inquiry.

Harcourt, to whose experience Edward had principally confided the prince, apprised Arundel of the critical position of the heir of the crown. Arundel, at the head of the second corps, advanced to his assistance, and succeeded in forcing the French from the hill, which they were vainly endeavouring to turn, into the valley, already encumbered with the massacre of the Genoese, and the bodies of innumerable horses dead or wounded. Fresh combatants advancing in disorder augmented the confusion; many were overwhelmed and suffocated in the pressure. The English arrows told upon the mass with tremendous effect; among their victims fell the brave d'Estracelles, never again to unlace his helmet.

"The Englishmen," says Hollingshed, "never broke out of their battles to chace any man, but kept themselves together in their wards and ranks, and defended themselves ever against such as came to assail them. When the Frenchmen were clearly overcome, and those that were left alive fled and gone, so that the Englishmen heard no more noise of them, King Edward came down from the hill (on which he stood all that day with his helmet still on his head), and going to the prince embraced him in his arms and kissed him, saying,- "Fair son, God send you good perseverance in this your prosperous beginning. You have nobly acquit yourself. You are well worthy to have the governance of a realm committed to your hands for your valiant doings." The prince inclined himself to the earth in honouring his father as best he could. This done they thanked God, together with their soldiers for their good adventure."

The forward movement of the English army at the close of the day must have been mainly directed towards the left wing of the French, which they appeared to have turned sufficiently to intercept all retreat towards Abbeville; as to an organised retreat there was none.

The fugitives fled towards the Authie, to the passages of that river at La Broye and Ponches. The Duke of Savoy, in particular, appears to have taken the latter route, probably following the old Roman road; he sought refuge in Montreuil, where he maintained himself a few days afterwards against Edward, who, on his way towards Calais, attacked Montreuil, and fired all the suburbs. The same cause which drove the wreck of the French army away from Abbeville, prevented all tidings of what had occurred from reaching that city, and proved fatal on the succeeding day to some reinforcements coming up from that quarter. That day, which was densely foggy, the result of the depression of temperature in the atmosphere caused by the thunderstorm, was devoted by Edward to attendance upon the wounded, and to the long and melancholy task of an enumeration of the slain.

There were found on the field of battle eighty banners, and the bodies of eleven princes, 1200 knights, no less than 30,000 common men, and one prelate. Froissart gives the loss of the English at only three knights and fifteen archers. Whatever it might have been in truth it was no doubt marvellously smali, a fact which receives support from the results of many battles fought about that period. "Thus," says Hollingshed, "was the whole puissance of France vanquished, and that chiefly by forces of such as were of no reputation among them, that is to say, the English archers, by whose sharp and violent shot the victory was achieved, to the great confusion of the French nation. Of such price were the English bowes in that season, that nothing was able to withstand them; whereas now our archers covet not to draw long and strong bows, but rather to shoot compass, which are not meet for the wars, nor greatly to be feared, though they come into the field."




[Melendez, who was born in 1754, and died in 1817, holds an eminent position among the more modern Spanish poets. His Anacreontics are remarkable, not for originality of thought or imagery, but for a certain natural gaiety in the expression, in which they are scarcely to be surpassed. They are in the common dimeter catalectic of Anacreon, the rima asonante being, of course, employed. In the following translations, rhyme is substituted for the asonante, and the original measure is preserved, though the two short lines are written out in a long one, on account of the absence of rhyme in the odd places.]


COME fill the cup, Dorilla,-and quickly hand it me,

I cannot choose but shiver-when youder snow I see.

The flakes are light and fleecy-as through the tranquil air,
They float, the earth to cover-with vest of ermine fair.

Oh, sheltered by our cottage-'tis pleasant, after all,
To see those countless feathers-so slowly whirling fall.

The trees bend down their branches-with weight of snow oppress'd,
And seem, with all their glitter-in candied sugar dress'd.

A raiment bright of crystal-o'er hill and mountain-side

Is spread that with that cover-their bareness they may hide.

The streamlet there is swelling-with added waters strong,
It mocks at ev'ry fetter-and gaily bounds along.

The rustic views with sorrow-the loss of all his labours,

Poor man! which is his own field-and which can be his neighbour's?
The birds, no longer singing-sit trembling in their nest
Or seek 'mid human dwellings—a doubtful place of rest.
The timid flocks are trembling-within the sheepfold pent,
And with their timid bleating-are craving nourishment.
The snow goes on increasing-now right and left 'tis cast,
The winter north-wind twirls it-in circles with his blast.
The clouds are heap'd like mountains-the sky begins to quail
And quickly folds about it—a darker, thicker veil.
The snow may fall, Dorilla-while we the goblet quaff,
And light and gaily jesting-at winter's rigour laugh.
Yes, let us drink and sing, love-for Zephyr soon will bring,
The flow'ry month of April-upon his gentle wing.


In search of truth, to science-one day I turn'd my mind,
And thought for all my evils-a remedy to find.

Oh, what a vain illusion-what hours of useless pain,

I gladly seek my verses-and joyous sports again.

What, does not life afford us-troubles and cares enough,

That we should swell their number-with such perplexing stuff.
I bind myself to Bacchus-he's always kind and good,
True wisdom by the sages-is little understood.

What matter if the sun, love-is set like diamond bright,
In yonder sky, Dorilla?—I care but for his light.

They say the moon is peopled-well, peopled let it be,
With living folks by thousands—no harm they'll do to me.
Away, with looks of history-let Alexander go
And plant victorious banners-where Ganges' waters flow.
'Tis nought to us, Dorilla-our flocks at will may feed,
One half of this small valley-is, surely, all they need.
"The study of the law, though-" A goblet without fail,
The name of that same goddess-has made my spirits quail.
The sapient folks who study-a thousand cares annoy,
Small sleep, a store of silence-much sadness, little joy.
What is their prize? Why, doubts, love-and these beget a string
Of other doubts in turn, love-which other studies bring.

'Tis thus they pass their life, love-a gay life that must be,
A life of hate and squabble-with folks that ne'er agree.

So fill the cup, Dorilla-while I have store of wine,
These songs thall ne'er be ended—these joyous songs of mine.


No more the silent forest-disturb, thou, gentle dove,
By telling doleful stories-about thy hapless love.
Cease, cease, that dismal cooing-and seek the open sky,
'Tis folly in thy sadness--from other birds to fly.
No use is in thy wailing-death's gloomy gates enclose
The lover, whom thou mournest-he cannot hear thy woes.

Would'st flatter him with sorrow? Ah, those that are asleep,
Within the tomb so chilly-care nought for those who weep.
No, no-there fate confines them-with cruel, constant care,
The only use of sighing—is just to shake the air.

Vain are thy lamentations-whither would'st take thy flight?
Why seek these shades so gloomy?—why shun the blessed light?
Return to joy, thou sad one-banish this widow's grief,
And in some other passion-seek for a sure relief.

Clouds from thine eye removing-adorn thy gentle neck,
Let plumage, now neglected-thy form with radiance deck.
Learn that a happy passion-the heart of grief beguiles,
And changes grief and mourning-to sunny laughs and smiles.


Whence is it that thou comest-thou messenger of joy,
Enlivening all the valleys-thou sportive butterfly?
How is't no flow'r can tempt thee-from wandering to rest,
Tempt thee to sip her perfume-couch'd on her purple breast?
I gaze on thee with envy-I watch thy fickle flight

From flower to flower thou boundest-more rapidly than sight.
Thou gaily hov'rest round them-caressing one and all,
Still seeking, shunning, touching-and kissing great and small.
And then what gallant raiment-thy gaudy wing displays
When freely 'tis extended-against the sun's bright rays.
Thy neck with pride is swelling-thy feathers all are spread
Thou curl'st thy horns and bendest-the crest upon thy head.
A gorgeous play of colours !-no purple is so fine

How pearl, and gold, and azure-to paint thy form combine!
The sun, with changing radiance-thy plumage loves to grace,
Charmed when he gazes on thee-to see his own bright face.
The zephyrs ever court thee-the roses all delight
Their tender leaves to open-thy love they would invite.
But thou art ever restless-art ever coy and free,
Their bosom and their fragrance-in vain they offer thee.
Thou light and daring rover-thou toyest with them all;
They all alike amuse thee-but none thy heart enthral.
The charming bell thou kissest-now wandering thou art seen,
Courting the coronilla-or love-lorn jessamine.

The pink thou lightly stirrest-thou seek'st carnations fair,
And from the lily's bosom-thou pluckest a treasure rare.
Then to some brook thou fliest-and in its waters clear,
While on a light bough balanced-thou seest thy form appear.
The sportive wind awakes now-the bough is wavering
Now to the streamlet stooping-it wets thy painted wing.
So off again thou fliest-scared from thy resting-place
Seeking the open valley-which flowers of April grace.
Oh happy, happy wand'rer-thou drinkest morning's smile,
Art able with fresh pleasures-each moment to beguile.
Thou brightest gem of summer-that in thy fickle flight
Across the flowery meadow-find'st ever new delight.
Alas, alas, still greater-my happiness would be
If Lisis were but like thee-in thy inconstancy.

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