Collected English Verse — Michael Drayton. b. 1563, d. 1631 (Part 3 of 3)

Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
        With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
        Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
        Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
        Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin’s Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
        To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
        Such a King Harry?

130   To the Virginian Voyage

YOU brave heroic minds
     Worthy your country’s name.
      That honour still pursue;
      Go and subdue!
Whilst loitering hinds
     Lurk here at home with shame.

Britons, you stay too long:
     Quickly aboard bestow you,
      And with a merry gale
      Swell your stretch’d sail
With vows as strong
     As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer,
     West and by south forth keep!
      Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals
      When Eolus scowls
You need not fear;
     So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea
     Success you still entice
      To get the pearl and gold,
      And ours to hold
Virginia,
     Earth’s only paradise.

Where nature hath in store
     Fowl, venison, and fish,
      And the fruitfull’st soil
      Without your toil
Three harvests more,
     All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine
     Crowns with his purple mass
      The cedar reaching high
      To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
     And useful sassafras.

To whom the Golden Age
     Still nature’s laws doth give,
      No other cares attend,
      But them to defend
From winter’s rage,
     That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell
     Of that delicious land
      Above the seas that flows
      The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell
     Approaching the dear strand;

In kenning of the shore
     (Thanks to God first given)
      O you the happiest men,
      Be frolic then!
Let cannons roar,
     Frighting the wide heaven.

And in regions far,
     Such heroes bring ye forth
      As those from whom we came;
      And plant our name
Under that star
     Not known unto our North.

And as there plenty grows
     Of laurel everywhere—
      Apollo’s sacred tree—
      You it may see
A poet’s brows
     To crown, that may sing there.

Thy Voyages attend,
     Industrious Hakluyt,
      Whose reading shall inflame
      Men to seek fame,
And much commend
     To after times thy wit.