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# The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898/Volume 9/Documents of 1593

* The second embassy to Japan. G. P. Dasmariñas, and others; April-May.
* Two letters to Felipe II. G. P. Dasmariñas; June 20.
* Memorandum of troops required in the Philippines. [1593?]
* Letter to the king of Camboja. G. P. Dasmariñas; September 27.
Sources: These translations are all obtained from MSS. in the Archivo general de Indias, Sevilla.
Translations: Part of the first document is translated by Consuelo A. Davidson; the rest of this, and the remaining documents in this group, by James A. Robertson.
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# The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898/Volume 9/Bibliographical Data

The royal decree of April 27, 1594, is taken from San Inés's Crónica, ii, p. 607; those of June 17, 1595, and March 20 and May 15, 1596, from Doc. inéd. Amér. y Oceanía, xxxiv, pp. 86-98 and 101-103. All the other documents in this volume are obtained from original MSS. in the Archivo general de Indias, their respective pressmarks being as follows:
* Second embassy to Japan.—First part: "Simancas—Secular; Audiencia de Filipinas; Cartas y espedientes del gobernador de Filipinas vistos en el Consejo; años 1567 á 1599; est. 67, caj. 6, leg. 6." Second part: "Simancas—Filipinas; descubrimientos, descripciones y poblaciones de las Yslas Filipinas; años de 1582 á 1606; est. 1, caj. 1, leg. 3|25, ramo 50."
* Letters from G. P. Dasmariñas.—June 20: The same as No. 1, second part (but no ramo). September 27: "Simancas—Filipinas; cartas y espedientes del presidente y oidores de dha Audiencia vistos en el Consejo; años de 1583 á 1600; est. 67, caj. 6, leg. 18."
* Memorandum of troops.—The same as No. 2, first part.
* List of Philippine villages.—"Simancas—Secular; Audiencia de Filipinas; cartas y expedientes ​ del presidente y oidores de dha Audiencia vistos en el Consejo; años de 1583 á 1599; est. 67, caj. 6, leg. 18."
* Letter to king of Camboja, 1594.—The same as No. 4.
* Investigation of the hospital.—The same as No. 2, first part.
* Report by Ortega.—"Simancas—Eclesiastico; Audiencia de Filipinas; cartas y espedientes de religiosos misioneros de Filipinas vistos en el Consejo; años 1569 á 1616; est. 68, caj. 1, leg. 37."
* Reply to Japanese emperor.—The same as No. 1, first part.
* Letters from L. P. Dasmariñas, June, 1594.—The same as No. 4 (except that of June 22, the same as No. 1, first part).
* Letter from Carbajal.—The same as No. 1, first part.
* Letter from Morga, 1595.—The same as No. 4.
* Expedition to Camboja, and Instructions to Figueroa.—The same as No. 2 (letter of June 20).
* Reëstablishment of Audiencia.—"Audiencia de Filipinas; registros de oficio y partes; reales ordenes dirigidas a las autoridades y particulares del distrito de la Audiencia; años de 1568 á 1605; est. 105, caj. 2, leg. 11, libro 2, fol. 100a-101b."
* Letter from Dasmariñas, December 6, 1595.—The same as No. 4.
* Instructions for Tello.—The same as No. 13 (except fol. 146-170).
* Letters from Dasmariñas and others, June-July, 1596.—The same as No. 4.
* Pacification of Mindanao.—The same as No. ​ 2 (letter of September 27). The last section (headed "The campaign"): "Simancas—Filipinas; cartas y espedientes del presidente y oidores de dicha Audiencia vistos en el Consejo; años de 1600 á 1606; est. 67, caj. 6, leg. 19."
* Memorial by Los Rios.—The same as No. 17, second part.
* Letter from Dasmariñas, June 28, 1597.—The same as No. 4.
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# The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898/Volume 9/Decree regarding the bishopric of Nueva Segovia

To the reverend father in Christ, the Bishop of Nueva Segovia in the province of Cagayan, in the island of Luzon, and member of my council: Inasmuch as his Holiness at my supplication did see fit to elevate the cathedral church of Manila into a metropolitan see, and to appoint three other bishops, one of them in that city, the purpose thereof having been that there should be prelates who might care for the instruction and teaching of the Indians, the administering of the sacraments, the exercise of episcopal acts, and the visitation of their districts, all which a single prelate could not easily do; I have seen fit to inform you that, for the present, so long as affairs are undeveloped, and until a better arrangement is made, no cathedral church shall be erected in that city, nor dignities or prebends provided for. You are to dwell privately in the monastery of your order in that said city, and remain there as prelate for such time as may please you. That bishopric shall be suffragan to the archbishop of Manila, and you shall have the latter as your metropolitan bishop and shall repair to that city for the synods and other matters arranged by the canons and councils. It is my will that you shall have what is necessary for your sustenance and the main​tenance of your episcopal dignities. The tithes in your district are at present to be gathered into one amount, and you are to have all that pertains to the prelates and to the prebendaries, dignitaries, and canons. In case this is not sufficient, you will repair to the officials of my royal exchequer in those islands, whom I command, upon establishment by evidence that all the aforesaid does not reach five hundred thousand maravedis yearly, that they shall grant and pay you such deficit from my royal exchequer. And with the said testimony, and with a copy of this my decree and your receipt, I order that what is thus granted and paid you be received and audited. Done in Ateca, the fifteenth of May, in the year one thousand five hundred and ninety-six.
I the King
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# The Princess; a medley

First published in 1847, this is a transcription of the first edition. The 2nd edition (1848) was essentially the same but Tennyson introduced major changes in the 3rd (1850), 4th (1851) and 5th (1853) editions. The latter is considered the 'final' version. [Based on The Bibliography of Tennyson (1896) pp.19-29, by Richard Herne Shepherd]
THE PRINCESS;
A MEDLEY.
THE PRINCESS;
A MEDLEY.
BY
ALFRED TENNYSON.
LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MDCCCXLVII.
LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
* Prologue
* Canto I
* Canto II
* Canto III
* Canto IV
* Canto V
* Canto VI
* Canto VII
* Conclusion
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Princess

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Princess."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Princess (Княгиня), a short story by A. Chekhov
* The Princess, a poem by James Elroy Flecker
* The Princess, a short story by D. H. Lawrence
* The Princess, a short story by Jack London
* The Princess, a work by Sydney Morgan
* The Princess, a poem by Alfred Tennyson
# The Prince of Parthia

* The Prince of Parthia, critical edition (1917), ed. by Archibald Henderson (external scan)
* The Prince of Parthia, pp. 1–42 in Representative American Plays (1920), ed. by Arthur Hobson Quinn
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Troubadour's Lament

The Troubadour's Lament.
It was a gallant troubadour, A child of sword and song, That loved a gentle paramour, And loved her leal and long; He woo'd her as a knight should woo, And laying lance in rest, In listed fields, her colours flew O'er many a haughty crest. He loved her as a bard should do, And taking harp in hand, In sweetest lays, that lady's praise He poured o'er many a land: But all in vain, His noblest strain Awoke no kind return; That lady proud Smiled on the crowd, But his true love did spurn.
It was a tristful troubadour, Heart-broken by disdain,
That then to France and belle amour Bequeathed this mournful strain, As riding on the yellow sand With many a knightly feere, He smote his harp with feeblest hand, To sing with feebler cheer: Adieu, proud love! adieu, fair land! Where heathen banners float, This broken heart can act its part, Can die, and be forgot. Alas! too late; It was its fate To learn, with saddest pain, It loved one Who scorned to own Her heart could love again.
Fair France, farewell! my latest breath Shall still be spent for thee, While meeting strife, I court my death In distant Galilee. My soul is bound up with the glaive That glitters at my thigh, And fixed upon the banner brave Now flashing to the sky.
A last adieu I well may waive To her I loved so well; She does not care what doom I bear, Yet, heartless maid, farewell! No bridal sheet For me is meet, I seek the soldier's bier, Who, for his God, Sleeps on the sod, Unstained by woman's tear.
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Water! The Water!

The Water! The Water!
The Water! the Water! The joyous brook for me, That tuneth, through the quiet night, Its ever-living glee. The Water! the Water! That sleepless merry heart, Which gurgles on unstintedly, And loveth to impart To all around it some small measure Of its own most perfect pleasure.
The Water! the Water! The gentle stream for me, That gushes from the old gray stone, Beside the alder tree. The Water! the Water! That ever-bubbling spring I loved and looked on while a child, In deepest wondering,—
And asked it whence it came and went, And when its treasures would be spent.
The Water! the Water! The merry, wanton brook, That bent itself to pleasure me, Like mine own shepherd crook. The Water! the Water! That sang so sweet at noon, And sweeter still at night, to win Smiles from the pale proud moon, And from the little fairy faces That gleam in heaven's remotest places.
The Water! the Water! The dear and blessed thing That all day fed the little flowers On its banks blossoming. The Water! the Water! That murmured in my ear, Hymns of a saint-like purity, That angels well might hear; And whisper in the gates of heaven, How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.
The Water! the Water! Where I have shed salt tears, In loneliness and friendliness, A thing of tender years. The Water! the Water! Where I have happy been, And showered upon its bosom flowers Culled from each meadow green, And idly hoped my life would be So crowned by love's idolatry.
The Water! the Water! My heart yet bums to think How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, For parched lip to drink. The Water! the Water! Of mine own native glen; The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, But ne'er shall hear again; Though fancy fills my ear for aye With sounds that live so far away!
The Water! the Water! The mild and glassy wave,
Upon whose gloomy banks I've longed To find my silent grave. The Water! the Water! Oh bless'd to me thou art; Thus sounding in life's solitude, The music of my heart, And filling it, despite of sadness, With dreamings of departed gladness.
The Water! the Water! The mournful pensive tone, That whispered to my heart how soon This weary life was done. The Water! the Water! That rolled so bright and free, And bade me mark how beautiful Was its soul's purity; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on it sought its grave.
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Slayne Menstrel

The Slayne Menstrel.
Ane harper there was—ane harper gude— Cam' harpin' at the gloamin fa'— And he has won to the bonnie bield Quhilk callit is the Newtoun Ha'.
'Brume, brume on hil'—the harper sang— 'And rose on brier are blythe to see— I would I saw the brume sae lang, Quhilk cleidis the braes o' my ain countree!'
'Out on ye, out, ye prydefu' loan, Wi' me ye winna lig the nicht— Hie to some bordel in borrowe toun: Of harpand craft I haud but licht!
'Out on ye, out, ye menstrel lewde'— Sayd the crewel Laird o' the Newtoun Ha'— 'Ye'll nae bide here, by blessit Rude, Gif harpe or lyf ye reck ava'!'
'I care na for mie lyf ane plack'— Quoth that auld harper sturdilie— 'But this gude harpe upon mie back Sal ne'er be fylit by ane lyk thee!'
'Thou liest there, thou menstrel wicht!' Outspak the Laird o' the Newtoun Ha'— 'For ye to death bedene art dicht, Haif at thee here and mend thy saw!'
Alace, Alace, the harper gude Was borne back aganis the wa', And wi' the best o' his auld hertis blude, They weetit hae the Newtoun Ha'!
Yet did he die wi' harpe in han', Maist lyk ane menstrel o' degree— There was na ane in a' the land Might matche wi' him o' the North countree!
Erie Douglas chauncit to ryde therebye— Ane gallant gentleman was he— Wi' four score o' weel harnessit men, To harrie in the South countree.
He haltit at the Newtoun Ha'— 'Quhat novelles now, bauld Laird, hae ye?'
'It's I haif slayne a worthlesse wicht, Ane menstrel lewde, as you may see!'
'Now schaw to me the harper's heid, And schaw to me the harper's hand, For sair I fear you've causeless spilt As gentil blude as in a' Scotland!'
'Kep then his heid, thou black Douglas'— Sayd boastfullie fase Newtoun Ha'— 'And kep his hand, thou black Douglas, His fingers slim his craft may schaw!'
The stout Erie vysit first the heid, Then neist he lukit on the hand— 'It's foul befa' ye, Newtoun Ha', Ye've slayne the pryde o' gude Scotland
'Now stir ye, stir, my merrie men, The faggot licht, and bete the flame, A fire sal rise o'er this buirdly bield, And its saulless Laird in the lowe we'll tame! '
The bleeze blew up, the bleeze dipt roun' The bonnie towers o' the Newtoun Ha', And evir as armit men ran out, Black Douglas slewe them ane and a'.
The bleeze it roarit and wantonit roun' The weel-pilet wawis o' the Newtoun Ha5 And ruif and rafter, bank and beam, Aneath the bauld fyris doun did fa'!
Now waly for the crewel Laird— As he cam loupin' through the lowe, Erie Douglas swappit aff his heid And swung it at his saddil bowe!
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Solemn Song of a Righteous Hearte

The Solemn Song of a Righteous Hearte.
After the Fashion of an Early English Poet.
There is a mightie Noyse of Bells, Rushing from the turret free; A solemn tale of Truthe it tells, O'er Land and Sea, How heartes be breaking fast, and then Wax whole againe.
Poor fluttering Soule! why tremble soe, To quitt Lyfe's fast decaying Tree; Time wormes its core, and it must bowe To Fate's decree; Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare, For Evermore.
Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth; Far under shal its shadows flee, And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth Growe strange to thee.
Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse, Nor court its Joies.
Fond One! why cling thus unto Life, As if its gaudes were meet for thee; Surely its F ollie, Bloodshed, Stryfe, Liked never thee? This World growes madder each newe daie, Vice beares such sway.
Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel, And crawle upon the supple knee— Couldst thou each Woe-worn wretch repel,— This Worldes for Thee. Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother: Then seek another.
Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright soe As flatter Guilt's prosper!tye, And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe— This Worldes for Thee. Sithence to this thou wilt not bend, Life's at an end.
Couldst thou spurn Vertue meanly clad, As if 'twere spotted Infamy, And prayse as Good what is most Bad—, This Worldes for Thee. Sithence thou canst not will it soe, Poor Flutterer, goe!
If Head with Hearte could so accord, In bond of perfyte Amitié, That Falsehood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, Word— This Worldes for Thee. But scorning guile, Truth-plighted one! Thy race is run.
Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved hearts weep And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye, Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape— This Worldes for Thee; But with the Weeper thou must weepe, And sad watch keep.
Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath wrung The withers of the Poore but Prowde,
And by the rootes pluck out the tongue That dare be lowde In Righteous cause, whate'er may be— This Worldes for Thee.
This canst thou not! Then fluttering thing Unstained in thy puritye, Sweep towards heaven with tireless wing— Meet Home for Thee. Feare not, the crashing of Lyfe's Tree— God's Love guides Thee.
And thus it is:—these solemn bells, Swinging in the turret free, And tolling forth theire sad farewells, O'er Land and Sea, Tell how Hearts breake, full fast, and then Growe whole againe.
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Spell-Bound Knight

The Spell-Bound Knight.
Lady, dar'st thou seek the shore Which ne'er woman's footstep bore;— Where beneath yon rugged steep, Restless rolls the darksome deep?
Dar'st thou, though thy blood run chill, Thither speed at midnight still— And when Horror rules the sky, Raise for lover lost thy cry?
Dar'st thou at that ghastiest hour Breathe the word of magic power— Word that breaks the mermaid's spell, Which false lover knows too well?
When affrighted spectres rise 'Twixt pale floods and ebon skies, Dar'st thou, reft of maiden fear, Bid the Water-Witch appear?
When upon the sallow tide Pearly elfin boat does glide, When the mystic oar is heard, Like the wing of baleful bird— Dar'st thou with a voice of might Call upon thy spell-bound knight?
When the shallop neareth land, Dar'st thou, with thy snow-white hand, Boldly on the warrior's breast Place the Cross by Churchman blest?— When is done this work of peril, Thou hast won proud Ulster's Earl!
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi

The Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi.
'Tis not the grey hawk's flight O'er mountain and mere; 'Tis not the fleet hound's course Tracking the deer; 'Tis not the light hoof print Of black steed or grey, Though sweltering it gallop A long summer's day; Which mete forth the Lordships I challenge as mine; Ha! ha! 'tis the good brand I clutch in my strong hand, That can their broad marches And numbers define. Land Giver! I kiss thee.
Dull builders of houses, Base tillers of earth, Gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth; But the pale fools wax mute When I point with my sword East, west, north, and south, Shouting, "There am I Lord!" Wold and waste, town and tower, Hill, valley, and stream, Trembling, bow to my sway In the fierce battle fray, When the star that rules Fate, is This falchion's red gleam. Might Giver! I kiss thee.
I've heard great harps sounding, In brave bower and hall, I've drank the sweet music That bright lips let fall, I've hunted in greenwood, And heard small birds sing; But away with this idle And cold jargoning;
The music I love, is The shout of the brave, The yell of the dying, The scream of the flying, When this arm wields Death's sickle, And garners the grave. Joy Giver! I kiss thee.
Far isles of the ocean Thy lightning have known, And wide o'er the main land Thy horrors have shone. Great sword of my father, Stern joy of his hand, Thou hast carved his name deep on The stranger's red strand, And won him the glory Of undying song. Keen cleaver of gay crests, Sharp piercer of broad breasts, Grim slayer of heroes, And scourge of the strong. Fame Giver! I kiss thee.
In a love more abiding Than that the heart knows, For maiden more lovely Than summer's first rose, My heart's knit to thine, And lives but for thee; In dreamings of gladness, Thou'rt dancing with me, Brave measures of madness In some battle-field, Where armour is ringing, And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn hemlet, Stout hauberk and shield. Death Giver! I kiss thee.
The smile of a maiden's eye Soon may depart; And light is the faith of Fair woman's heart; Changeful as light clouds, And wayward as wind, Be the passions that govern Weak woman's mind.
But thy metal's as true As its polish is bright; When ills wax in number, Thy love will not slumber, But starlike, burns fiercer, The darker the night. Heart Gladdener! I kiss thee.
My kindred have perished By war or by wave— Now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave. When the path of our glory Is shadowed in death, With me thou wilt slumber Below the brown heath; Thou wilt rest on my bosom, And with it decay— While harps shall be ringing, And Scalds shall be singing The deeds we have done in Our old fearless day. Song Giver! I kiss thee.
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Trooper's Ditty

The Trooper's Ditty.
Boot, boot into the stirrup, lads, And hand once more on rein; Up, up into the saddle, lads, A-field we ride again: One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear, No leisure now to sigh, God bless them all—we have their prayers, And they our hearts—"Good-bye!" Off, off we ride, in reckless pride, As gallant troopers may, Who have old scores to settle, and Long slashing swords to pay.
The trumpet calls—"trot out, trot out,"— We cheer the stirring sound; Swords forth, my lads—through smoke and dust We thunder o'er the ground. Tramp, tramp, we go through sulphury clouds, That blind us while we sing,—
Woe worth the knave who follows not The banner of the King; But luck befall each trooper tall, That cleaves to saddle-tree, Whose long sword carves on rebel sconce, The rights of Majesty.
Spur on, my lads; the trumpet sounds Its last and stern command— "A charge! a charge!"—an ocean burst Upon a stormy strand. Ha! ha! how thickly on our casques Their pop-guns rattle shot; Spur on, my lads, we'll give it them As sharply as we've got. Now for it:—now, bend to the work— Their lines begin to shake; Now, through and through them—bloody lanes Our flashing sabres make!
"Cut one—cut two—first point," and then We'll parry as we may; On, on the knaves, and give them steel In bellyfuls to-day.
Hurrah! hurrah! for Church and State, For Country and for Crown, We slash away, and right and left Hew rogues and rebels down. Another cheer! the field is clear, The day is all our own; Done like our sires,—done like the swords God gives to guard the Throne!
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Voice of Love

The Voice of Love.
When shadows o'er the landscape creep, And twinkling stars pale vigils keep; When flower-cups all with dew-drops gleam And moonshine floweth like a stream; Then is the hour That hearts which love no longer dream,— Then is the hour That the voice of love is a spell of power!
When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake, And amorous leaves sweet music wake; When slumber steals o'er every eye, And Dian's self shines drowsily; Then is the hour That hearts which love with rapture sigh,— Then is the hour That the voice of love is a spell of power!
When surly mastiffs stint their howl, And swathed in moonshine nods the owl;
When cottage-hearths are glimmering low, And warder cocks forget to crow; Then is the hour That hearts feel passion's overflow,— Then is the hour That the voice of love is a spell of power!
When stilly night seems earth's vast grave, Nor murmur comes from wood or wave; When land and sea, in wedlock bound By silence, sleep in bliss profound; Then is the hour That hearts like living well-springs sound,— Then is the hour That the voice of love is a spell of power!