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FALKLAND AT NEWBURY, 1643, by                    
First Line: Now which is wrong or right? Too glib we talk
Last Line: A soldier's death to end a statesman's doubts.
Alternate Author Name(s): Conway, Hugh
Subject(s): Cary, Lucius. 2d Viscount Falkland; Great Britain - Civil War; English Civil War


Now which is wrong or right? Too glib we talk
Of 'crop-eared knaves, malingnants' - prate too fast
Of 'round-head rebels'. Those who bid, to-day,
Defiance sullen to our haughty ranks
War not for pleasure, plunder, nor the fame
Sweet to a soldier. Nay, their hearts are moved
By some strange sense of wrong; the when or how
Perchance misunderstood, yet roused and strung
Till awe-struck homage and the right divine
Of kings are swept away before the blast
Of mighty anger, stirring to the depths
A people stern at Liberty assailed.

'The king can do no wrong!' Have I not seen
Fair treaties cancelled, regal oaths recalled;
The danger past that dragged from royal lips
The lulling words - and then, once more the need,
The promise made - and broken? Ay, until
My heart grew sick, and through a cloud of doubt
This thought would glimmer - 'They are just, these men,
And I should stand beside them, plead their cause,
And, if the bitter end at last must come,
Fall with them fighting.'
Then around me closed
The iron bands of old tradition - rank
And order, knightly vows and fealty,
And, stronger yet, the love I bear my lord
As fellow-man, not king. Again, I shrank
From calling traitor Essex friend, or with
The shifty Fairfax linking in my lot,
And name. Sure, if their cause be right,
The tools it needs to shape it to its ends
Are chosen strangely.
Yet, I dreamt last night,
One came to me with starry eyes and clear,
Reading the very doubts that swayed my soul, --
A goddess, belted, armed. She grasped a sword --
No slender blade, with handle gilt and gemmed,
Meet for a courtier's side, - the steel she shook
Was keen and stout as one might wish to hold
When blows are thickly dealt, and ready hands
Must guard the head. Outstretching it, she said,
'Take this, and strike for England.'
Then I asked,
'Which England?' - Oh, the regal scorn that curled
Her lip, as clear and cold the answer came:
'There is but one - the people's. Take and strike!'
And, wavering, I reached, and then again
Withdrew, and whispering the while, 'The king
Can do no wrong'; and her proud face I saw
Grow stern and sad, and I awoke.
Ah! now
The battle opens, and amid those ranks
Sombre and sullen, waits, maybe, a point
Meant for a foe, yet bearing to a friend
A soldier's death to end a statesman's doubts.





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