The Life and Death of King Edmund Ironside

We are not borne vnto our selues alone,
Deeds done, though good: yet from a greedy mind
Intending priuate weale, when life is gone,
Vading away, leaue no record behind
In fame’s faire booke, for future age to find:
Self-loue to priuate good, no good can craue,
When life is gone such loue lies dead in graue.

The fruits of loue, which after life do liue,
To grow from loue of common good are seene,
To reape such fruit, whoso his life shall giue,
Though dead, yet liues: his fruit aye waxeth greene,
Of which my life a Mirrour might haue been:
But whose sad muse my tragedie doth sing,
Or who to light king Edmund’s deeds doth bring?

Now from my graue, the bed of my long rest
Rous’d vp by fame, through shades of silent night,
Behold I come obeying her behest,
As Mirrours vnto men, to bring to light
My deeds, oft done in my deare countrie’s right:
Heare then (thou sleeping wight) whose mournefull muse
To sing my storie Memorie doth chuse.

I am the sonne of that vnhappie king
Hight Egelred, whose daies were wrapt in woe,
And on whose head false fortune downe did fling,
Such miserable scath and ouerthrow,
That he was forc’d his kingdome to forgo:
For subiect’s treacherie did him constraine
To leaue his kingdome vnto bloodie Swaine.

To bloodie Swaine, who from our Albion shore
Vnto the Norman duke to saue his life,
Forc’d him to flie, whose sister he, before
My mother dead, had made his second wife,
In hope thereby t’appease domesticke strife,
And by the aid of Norman valiancie,
To quell the force of forren enemie.

But hence did rise the ruine of the state,
And fourth decay of Albion’s emperie,
This was the gap, which by decree of fate
Was open laid for time’s posteritie,
Vnto the Norman conquerer’s victorie:
For by these fatall nuptials in the end,
The Norman duke his title did pretend.

My sire being thus constrain’d by forren force,
And subiects treason, in such miserie,
Amongst his Norman friends to seeke remorce
Of his mishaps, the land meane time did lie
Groaning beneath the victor’s tyrannie,
For nere did captiu’d men sustaine such woes,
As did the english of the conquering foes.

O noble England, nurse of my renowne,
Queene of all ilands canoped of heauen,
How was thy towring state then troden downe?
How were thy sonnes from their sad mother driuen?
Thy daughter’s beautie vnto rapine giuen?
My words, alas, will thy sad heart compell
To bleed with woe, these woes to heare me tell.

The simple hinde, who with day-labour stroue
In fruitlesse field to furrow vp his bread,
Nor for himselfe the earth with paine did proue,
But for another, whom his labour fed,
Although in heart he often wisht him dead,
In euery house lord Dane did then rule all,
Whence laysie lozels lurdanes now we call.

The nuptiall bed, the lodge of chaste delight,
Was common vs’d in wedlocke’s foule disdaine,
Sweet virgins daily forc’d to deeds of night,
Faire ladies beautie set to sale for gaine,
Children made bondslaues, wretched husbands slain,
Who to such rufull spoile were iustly giuen
For their offence against the king of heauen.

Let such, whose peacefull eares from sad affright
Of warre’s dread voice the hand of heauen doth close,
Who lull’d in that dame’s lap of sweet delight,
The queene of peace do sleepe secure of foes,
Thinke it humane, to thinke on other’s woes:
And in such thoughts fear such like woes to come,
For their offence ordain’d by Ioue’s iust doome.

The life of state lay stifeled in the smoke
Of blacke despaire, till death tooke life from Swaine,
Then th’english peeres shooke off the heauie yoke
Of forren pride, which they did erst sustaine,
And did recall my father home againe,
Who did enforce by power of his strong hand
Canute the sonne of Swaine to leaue this land.

Then did he seeke to reerect againe
The ruines of his crowne’s collapsed state:
But he, t’whom at his birth heauen did ordaine
In all his deeds ineuitable fate
Of bad euent, euen to his daie’s last date
His wishfull hopes in vaine did seeke t’aduance,
Vpon th’vnsteadie wheele of fickle chance.

For ere those sprightfull horse of heauenly breed,
That draw the chariot of the golden sunne,
Who day by day do vse their swiftest speed
From east to west their yeare’s full race had runne,
Our fatall foe Canute king Swanus sonne,
To wretched England made returne againe
From Denmarke shores with many a thousand Dane.

Who taking land at Sandwich in their ire,
Deuoid of pitie in the spoile of good,
Senselesse of humane woes with spoilefull fire
All things did burne, that in their passage stood,
Nor yet suffic’d: but thirsting after blood,
All doom’d to death, none kept for captiue bands,
Were slaine in troopes by their remorcelesse hands.

T’oppose their powers in field I soone did cite
My father’s subiects from all quarters by:
But when prepar’d we were in field to fight,
Th’unhappie tidings through our host did flie
Of false duke Edrick and his treacherie,
Who with his troope in depth of darkest night,
Vnto Canutus campe did take his flight.

Whereby made weake vnable to withstand
Th’augmented powers of our insulting foe,
We backe return’d with our disabled band,
And to our kingly father we did show
Duke Edrick’s treason, which, alas, with woe
So wounds his heart, that he expires his breath,
Poore aged king, and ends his woes in death.

He being dead, to me his eldest borne,
Was left the reliques of a ruin’d state,
By rage of Mars a kingdome rent and torne,
A diademe by sterne decree of fate
Ordain’d for prize of bloodie warre’s debate,
Which was the end, for which Canute and I
In martial field did many a battell trie.

O wretched end of glorie thirsting pride!
O vaine pursuit of empire and renowne!
What lot the land of discord doth betide
But wastfull spoile and all turn’d topsie downe?
What doe we purchase but a carefull crowne?
A crowne of care, the cause of froward strife,
The cause for which I lost my loued life.

For after that against th’inuading foe
Six bloodie battailes I had fought in field,
I that in warre away did victor goe,
On whom (O England) thou thy hopes didst build,
Vanquish’t in peace to death was forc’d to yeeld:
The chance of warre my chance could not apall,
But trust in traytors wrought my wretched fall.

When as the crowne my head did first adorne,
These thoughts vnto my selfe, I thus did frame:
Vnto my selfe I am not onlie borne,
My countrie deare the cheefest part doth claime,
Who to my care now kneeles and craues the same,
To saue the remnant of her ruin’d soile
From cruell foes that threat her vtter spoile.

The thought of this did spirit bold inspire,
And smart of wounds receiu’d from foes of late
Did with swift furie feather my desire,
Which of itself by nature’s gifts did hate
To linger time, deferring vtmost fate
In doubtfull chance of battaile to be tride,
For which I was surnam’d, hight Ironside.

This fire of expedition in affaires
And height of resolution t’vndergoe,
Compar’d to strength of limbes and restlesse cares,
Redoubled in my thoughts t’oppugne the foe,
And yeeld releefe to England in her woe,
Did touch Canutus hart with feare, though bent
To trie his fortunes in the warre’s euent.

Distracted thus with doubt, in any place
By doubtfull fight t’ingage his hopefull fate,
False Edrick hoping for to purchase grace,
Who for his treason to my sire of late,
Had run in danger of my deadlie hate,
Did plot the downfall of mine emperie,
And in the end did act my tragedie.

From prince Canutus campe in dead of night,
Like the Greekes subtile Synon, to effect
His wicked plot, to vs he tooke his flight,
And at our feete himselfe he did proiect,
And spake, as if his thoughts had no respect
To his owne life: for he with craftie wile
Of seeming sorrow thus did me beguile.

“O noble prince,” quoth he, “loe, I am come
As guiltie to my selfe, and do require
To suffer shamefull death by righteous doome
From thine owne mouth, against whose royall sire
And gainst thy selfe I did of late conspire:
Pronounce then death, a doome more sweet to mee,
Then aged dayes in loathed life can bee.

Ay me the dayes, on you I may exclaime,
In which to foule defame my life I lent:
Alas, the nights, that testifie my shame,
Your secret treasons I too late repent:
O wrongfull world, that made my thoughts consent:
Nor dayes, nor nights, nor world in future time,
But will for aye record my gracelesse crime.

In vaine mine eyes, that shame yee do lament,
Which follows me where euer I doe wone,
In vaine my sighs, in vaine yee now are sent
From wofull hart to waile my trespasse done:
For should I liue, foule shame how shall I shun?
Then welcome death, ’tis death must end my woe,
Vnto my graue my greefe with me will goe.”

This said, he wept and I began relent
And take remorse on his calamitie,
His hoarie head did moue me to lament
His wretched state, whom I from miserie
Restor’d againe to former dignitie:
For I, whose thoughts nere double dealing knew,
Did also thinke his thoughts vnfan’d and true.

He being restor’d againe to liue in grace,
Did cloake beneath the vaile of loyaltie,
Th’intent of treason and did maske the face
Of foule deceit with fawning flatterie,
Till time-borne truth did shew his treacherie,
For many a field and many a dreadfull fight
His treason shew’d, which time did bring to light.

The scourge of peacefull pride, the god of warre,
The prodigue spender of sweet plentie’s store
Did ride about our coast in iron carre,
Whose thundring wheeles like Neptune’s dreaded rore,
Were heard to rattle on our Albion shore,
So long, vntill the pale-fac’d queene of night
Had twelue times borrow’d of her brother’s light.

In six fierce battels fought in martiall field,
Fortune my sword with conquest did renowne,
Six times Canute ore-match’d in fight did yeeld
And fled away, by froward fate cast downe,
Leauing to me the hope of England’s crowne:
Whose hopes my sword had smothered in the dust,
If I to traytor’s words had giuen no trust.

For, after that I had with foule affright
Dispers’d the bold Canutus mightie host,
That had begirt my loyall London hight,
Lest any breathing space might haue been lost,
I follow’d him vnto that rockie coast,
Ouer whose mountaine tops the daie’s great guide,
The golden sunne appeares each morning tide.

And there where Medway with his siluer streames
Runs gliding downe the lowlie dales of Kent,
Vntill he meetes his elder brother Thames,
Vpon a hill I pight my warlike tent,
Expecting how the foes, that night stood bent,
If till the morne they did determine stay,
Or daunted with late foile would flie away.

The night we past in quiet sleepe’s repose,
And when the bright-cheekt ladie of the light
Tir’d with night’s toyle from Tython’s bed arose,
And in her saffron-coloured robe bedight
With her approch brought vse to mortall fight,
We troopt our men in Mars’ his best array,
Vpon the foes in field to giue th’assay.

The foes stood firme vpon the sandie ground,
Shaking their deadlie darts with countnance proud:
Then did the trump the song of battaile sound,
And Danish kettle drums did beate alowd,
While euerie one in midst of martiall crowd
Insatiate in reuenge vndaunted stood,
Imbruing their bold hands in humane blood.

While thus oppos’d both parts in fight did stand,
Hopefull of conquest, on the right side wing
Of all the host, nere to the slimie strand,
Where the sweet herbes by Medwaie’s streames do spring,
The cries of wounded souldiers high did ring,
For there Canute did charge with violent sway
Of his horse troopes, in hope to win the day.

But to represse the fire and quench the flame
Of his hot courage, with a troope of horse
I rusht amongst his men with loud exclame,
Whom with fierce furie in our winged course
We did so charge, that we did soone inforce
Their faint retire, which we did swift pursue,
Vntill with open flight from field they flew.

Then were the Kentish vales imbru’d in blood,
Then death was set on foote and thousands fell,
The brackish wanes of Medganara’s flood
With slaughtered bodies 'boue the bankes did swell,
Whose blushing streames the fight far of did tell
Painting the bankes with crimson in the way,
As they did glide into the Orean sea.

Here heauen did smile on me with gracious looke,
And fortune put faire conquest in my hand,
On bald occasion hold I might haue tooke
And thence-forth freed the subiects of my land
From seruile yoke of forraine king’s command:
But what we purpose heauen doth still decree,
In vaine we wish what heauen wils not to bee.

The treacherous duke, the faithlesse man at armes,
Ignoble Edrick thus did counsell mee:
“My liege,” quoth he, “we hazard now more harmes
In pursuit of the flying enemie,
Then earst we did before the victorie,
’Tis best we sound retreate and fall to spoile,
Of these dead foes vpon the sandie soile.

Your men, though bold, yet wearied with the fight,
Be faint, and fortune may the foes so grace,
That they, constrain’d with desperate feare from flight
To backward death againe to turne their face,
May charge our troopes disordered in the chace:
Distraction heartens feare in desperate deeds,
Constraint in coward thoughts rash valor breeds.”

This did he speake despairing hope to come
For prince Canute, if we pursu’d the chace:
Some did approue his counsell sound, and some
Did vrge against the same, yet found it grace
With those both rightlie wise and best in place:
By whose aduice retreate I did command,
Losing the chance then put into my hand.

Thus did Troye’s helme-deckt, Hector when in chace
He had the Greekes vpon Scamander’s plaine,
And made them house their heads with deepe disgrace
In their owne fleet: whom then hee could haue slaine
And burnt their ships, which did their hopes containe:
But then being crost by lucklesse destinie
He did omit the profferd victorie.

Thus did Rome’s scourge, the famous Hanniball,
For when he might with his victorious powers
Haue made that towne beneath his sword to fall,
And leueld with the ground her high topt towers,
Then did he let passe those auspicious houers,
In which with ease he might haue queld the foe,
Who after wrought his and his countrie’s woe.

Securefull thoughts do foster fond delay,
Bewitching hopes breed carelesnesse of minde,
Occasion set on wing flies fast away,
Whose backe once turn’d no hold fast can we finde,
Her feet are swift, bald is her head behinde,
Who so hath hold and after lets her goe,
Doth lose the lot which fortune did bestowe.

Euen as a fire supprest, if yet remaine
A sparke not quite extinct, whence growes a flame,
Wil soone resume his former strength againe:
Euen so Canutus power, which I did tame,
And with one blow might then haue queld the same,
Resum’d proud strength, which little time did yeeld,
And oft times after brau’d me in the field.

The bainfull’st battaile we did euer fight,
At Scorstan was, in fruitfull Worstershire,
Where vnto both the hosts in open sight
Duke Edrick’s treason plainly did appeare,
Which in his hart ’gainst me he still did beare:
The heart once tainted with foule treason’s staine,
Possest with guile, seldome proues true againe.

Two dayes in field we stood in doubtfull fight,
And after mutuall wounds with equall fate,
Both parts were parted by approching night:
But in the next daye’s fight this traytor’s hate
Did shew it selfe, for seeing the foes in state
Of strength declin’d, he sought by treacherie
To giue the day vnto the enemie.

In midst of martiall throng my folk t’excite,
As I did stand in skirmish ’gainst the foe,
A man of armes there was, which Osmeare hight,
So like to mee, that scarse you could him know,
By whom this traytor sought to worke vs woe:
For as in fight he stood without all dread,
False Edrick vndiscern’d did strike him dead.

Whose liuelesse lims in endlesse sleepe fast bound,
After he had despoil’d and headlesse made,
He tooke himselfe vnto an higher ground,
And piching Osmear’s head vpon his blade,
He held the same on high and thus he said:
“Flie, wretched countrimen, your king is dead,
The day is lost, see here king Edmund’s head.”

The suddaine horror of this vncouth sight
With suddaine fright my folke did so dismay,
That they which were not in that part of fight
Where with my launce and sword I did display
Th’extreamest of my strength to win the day,
Away had fled and lost the victorie,
Had I not heard of Edrick’s treacherie.

With speed on top of an adioyning hill,
My selfe I did conuey, where I in sight
Of all my host thus spake with voice most shrill:
“Fellowes in armes,” quoth I, “let not this slight
Of traytor’s practise your bold thoughts affright:
Behold yet free from death’s captiuitie,
I liue to be reueng’d on th’enimie.”

This said, each one which had begun to flie
Turn’d head againe, and stoutly kept his place,
Then rushing with exclaimes on th’enemie,
Eager with furie of their late disgrace,
They gaue the charge so fiercely on the face
Of th’aduerse force, that by their violent might,
They brake the rankes, and turn’d their foes to flight.

With whom the Mercian duke fled fast away,
The traytor Edrick hopelesse now of grace,
Who wing’d with feare of his decreed decay,
Outstript our pursuit, yet with greedie chace
We did pursue, vntill the day gaue place
T’approching night, whose wished presence gaue
Time to the foes themselues from death to saue.

Canute being fled, did slacke no breathing space,
Once more to trie the chance of doubtfull fight:
But gathered his dispersed powers apace,
With whom I by a place, which Dearehurst hight,
In sea-side bordering Glostershire should fight,
Where I with resolution did intend
In single fight this spoilefull warre to end.

When on the fishie Seuerne’s bordering costs
Oppos’d for fight, the battels ranged were,
A noble knight confronting both the hosts,
Did boldly in the midst aduance his speare,
At which both armies did from fight forbeare,
For straight my men I staid, because I knew
His purpose then, which thus he did pursue.

“Yee glory-thirsting sonnes of Mars,” said he,
“To what I speake, with good aduice giue eare,
Let not my words by you contemned be,
If any loue to humane good ye beare,
Yee will esteeme my exhortations deare,
If either part my counsell shall refuse,
No good can happen in these warres we vse.

Not th’haplesse fate, which followes hostile warre:
Nor terrible euents of bloodie fight,
Nor spoiles, that spring from contumelious iarre,
Nor woes produc’d from strife for lordly right,
To you, my countrimen, need I recite,
For woe, alas, this land can testifie
The rauenous rage of Mars his tyrannie.

Pitie the teares of this our mother Ile,
Whose fame which 'bout the world once shone as bright
As Phœbus shine, now dim’d, alas, the while,
With clouds of carefull strife hath lost her light,
That to behold her in this wretched plight,
Like sorowe’s image drown’d in waues of woe,
Would make the hardest flint with teares to flow.

Her fertile wombe, which goodly fruit did beare,
Now barren made, war’s stormie breath hath blasted,
Her buds of gaysome youth, which whilome were
The flowers of chiualrie, haue headlong hasted
Their timelesse end, while she in woe hath wasted,
And we the cause, we wretches, that delight
By wicked warre to worke her more despight.

O noble princes, let not warre’s blacke hand
Put out for aye the shine of England’s light,
About whose right, both in contention stand,
But combate for it in a single fight,
And he that conquers, his be it by right:
Faire conquest’s gift is in the hand of heau’n,
Which vnto truth, for truth’s owne sake is giuen.”

He hauing said, forthwith I forth did step,
And cast my brazen gauntlet on the plaine,
To which Canute with courage bold did lep
And tooke it vp, casting in deepe disdaine
His rich grau’d gauntlet on the ground againe,
Which I accepted and propos’d the day,
When we in fight each other should assay.

For battell was design’d a plot of ground
Within a little ile, which Olney hight,
Whom Seuerne with his armes incircleth round,
Where we as combatants in single fight
Should d’araine bettell in both armie’s sight,
While they assigned were by our command,
On th’other side of Seuern’s streame to stand.

The day of fight being come and order giuen,
Through either host to euery seuerall band
To keepe their stand, my souldiers vp to heau’n
Did cast their eyes, beseeching Ioue to stand
By me in fight, and grace my powerfull hand
With conquest ’gainst Canute, by whom cast downe,
They did expect the rise of my renowne.

As they thus prai’d, I arm’d me for the fight,
And being mounted on a sprightfull steed,
When ’twixt both armies I appear’d in sight,
My terrible aspect did terror breed
Vnto the aduerse part, but hope did feed
My souldier’s sight to see my goodly grace,
My stout demeanor, and my stately pace.

As Priam’s Hector on the barren plaine,
Manag’d his horse before the walles of Troy,
When he in single battell did maintaine
Troye’s right ’gainst Telamon, who did imploy
All his best strength bold Hector to destroy,
So on my steed I trotted to and fro,
Waiting th’approch of my expected foe.

Who came at length all arm’d in seemely wise
Into the lists, and when the trumpe did sound,
Our steeds as swift as birds of wings in skies,
Their course did run, and we with speares sharpe ground
Did fiercely meete each other to confound,
In which swift course our shattered speares did flie,
Like feathers borne by winde into the skie.

As two fierce buls fights twixt an heard of kine,
Whose violence doth increase, when in their sight
The crimson blood doth from their wounds decline,
So wounds giuen equally in doubtfull fight,
Our eager thoughts did to reuenge excite,
The anguish arm’d our armes with strength to strike,
And made vs both incounter lion-like.

On horsback first the fight we did maintaine,
And when our horse did faile, dismounting straight
On foote the fight we did begin againe,
In which my foes haut courage gan to abate,
I with my sword laid on such wounds of weight,
That his faint knees did stoope at euerie blow,
And in the fight did stagger to and fro.

Who tir’d with toile and fearing least my sword
Should beare away the palme of victorie,
Thus spake to me: “Forbeare,” quoth he, “braue lord,
This doubtfull fight, and let vs both agree
To ioyne our harts and hands in amitie,
Least that our swords each other do destroy,
Leauing this land for others to inioy.

Right well thou knowst the chance of victorie
Vncertaine is, and though the crowne thou claime
As due to thee and thy posteritie,
So, noble prince, I, in my father’s name,
As my inheritance do craue the same:
In one consent then let vs both agree
That England’s bounds twixt vs may parted bee.

Let not the inward hands of dogged hate
Teare thy great minde, but supple it with grace
Of heauenlie loue, let loue end our debate,
Which if in thought thou trulie canst imbrace,
Then in my hart thou hast a brother’s place,
To which all-seeing Ioue I witnesse call,
Who is the supreame souereigne of vs all.”

To this I pausde a while, but at the length
Conceauing well the combat’s doubtfull chance,
“Canute,” said I, “since God hath giuen thee strength
In fight to trie the manage of my lance
And slaughtering sword without thy life’s mischance,
I thinke right well his will likewise it bee,
That in my kingdome thou haue part with me.”

This said, our swords we sheath’d in th’armie’s sight,
And with kinde armes each other did embrace,
Happie it seem’d to those, that did delight
In happie peace, to see such loue take place
Twixt two such mortall foes in so short space:
But haplesse I that did accord thereto,
Th’euent whereof did breed my after woe.

The traytor Edrick, preordainde by fate
To act my fall, whom for his treacherie
I daylie did pursue with deadlie hate,
Did instigate his sonne by villanie
With impious hands to act my tragedie,
Who to impietie by nature free,
After this tragick sort did murther mee.

Vpon a time, when in the Muse’s bower,
England’s Parnassus, famous Oxford hight
Was my abode, there in that fatall houre,
When as expedient vse did me excite
To do the deed of nature requisite,
Vnto the draught as was my wont I went
Vnto my nature’s vse to yeeld content.

Where loe, the sonne of this false duke did lie
Hid in the vault, to further his intent
With weapon arm’d: for on the draught while I
Secure did sit, with fatall instrument
This villane gor’d my bodie’s fundament,
And there to death his due I timelesse gaue,
At Glastenburie I was laid in graue.

Thus after twice sixe months, and as much space,
As from the time the swallow leaues her nest,
Till Phœbus haue the lion in full chace,
With th’angrie dog, that from his burning brest
Breaths mortall plagues, hot feauers and vnrest,
When I had raign’d, I lost my life and crowne:
With which our English name lost her renowne.

Thus hast thou heard the sad catastrophe,
And fatall period of my life and raigne,
In which thou seest, that where false treacherie
Hath toucht the heart with her foule finger’s staine,
There seldome constant truth returnes againe,
Which that it may to future times be knowne,
Forget not what was said, when I am gone.