Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
Angiers
By William Shakespeare (1564–1616)F
And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in;
Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lie scatter’d on the bleeding ground.
Many a widow’s husband groveling lies,
Coldly embracing the discolor’d earth;
And Victory, with little loss, doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French,
Triumphantly display’d; who are at hand,
To enter conquerors, and to proclaim
Arthur of Bretagne, England’s King, and yours.
King John, your king and England’s, doth approach
Commander of this hot malicious day.
Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood;
There stuck no plume in any English crest,
That is removed by a staff of France:
Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march’d forth;
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands.
Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes.
Open your gates, and give the victors way.