The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

THE GRAVE OF THE LAST SAXON

INTRODUCTORY CANTO

Subject – Grave and children of Harold – Confederate army of Danes, Scottish, and English arrived in the Humber the third year of the Conqueror, and marching to York.

 
"Know ye the land where the bright orange glows!"
Oh! rather know ye not the land, beloved
Of Liberty, where your brave fathers bled!
The land of the white cliffs, where every cot
Whose smoke goes up in the clear morning sky,
On the green hamlet's edge, stands as secure
As the proud Norman castle's bannered keep!
Oh! shall the poet paint a land of slaves,
(Albeit, that the richest colours warm
His tablet, glowing from the master's hand,)
And thee forget, his country – thee, his home!
Fair Italy! thy hills and olive-groves
A lovelier light empurples, or when morn
Streams o'er the cloudless van of Apennine,
Or more majestic eve, on the wide scene
Of columns, temples, arches, and aqueducts,
Sits, like reposing Glory, and collects
Her richest radiance at that parting hour;
While distant domes, touched by her hand, shine out
More solemnly, 'mid the gray monuments
That strew the illustrious plain; yet say, can these,
Even when their pomp is proudest, and the sun
Sinks o'er the ruins of immortal Rome,
A holy interest wake, intense as that
Which visits his full heart, who, severed long,
And home returning, sees once more the light
Shine on the land where his forefathers sleep;
Sees its white cliffs at distance, and exclaims:
There I was born, and there my bones shall rest!
Then, oh! ye bright pavilions of the East,
Ye blue Italian skies, and summer seas,
By marble cliffs high-bounded, throwing far
A gray illumination through the haze
Of orient morning; ye, Etruscan shades,
Where Pan's own pines o'er Valambrosa wave;
Scenes where old Tiber, for the mighty dead
As mourning, heavily rolls; or Anio
Flings its white foam; or lucid Arno steals
On gently through the plains of Tuscany;
Be ye the impassioned themes of other song.
Nor mine, thou wondrous Western World, to call
The thunder of thy cataracts, or paint
The mountains and the vast volcano range
Of Cordilleras, high above the stir
Of human things; lifting to middle air
Their snows in everlasting solitude;
Upon whose nether crags the vulture, lord
Of summits inaccessible, looks down,
Unhearing, when the thunder dies below!
Nor, 'midst the irriguous valleys of the south,
Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea,
Now pause I to admire the bright blue bird,
Brightest and least of all its kind, that spins
Its twinkling flight, still humming o'er the flowers,
Like a gem of flitting light!
To these adieu!
Yet ere thy melodies, my harp, are mute
For ever, whilst the stealing day goes out
With slow-declining pace, I would essay
One patriot theme, one ancient British song:
So might I fondly dream, when the cold turf
Is heaped above my head, and carping tongues
Have ceased, some tones, Old England, thy green hills
Might then remember.
 
 
Time has reft the shrine
Where the last Saxon, canonized, lay,
And every trace has vanished,⁹⁰ like the light
That from the high-arched eastern window fell,
With broken sunshine on his marble tomb —
So have they passed; and silent are the choirs,
That to his spirit sang eternal rest;
And scattered are his bones who raised those walls,
Where, from the field of blood slowly conveyed,
His mangled corse, with torch and orison,
Before the altar, and in holy earth,
Was laid! Yet oft I muse upon the theme;
And now, whilst solemn the slow curfew tolls,
Years and dim centuries seem to unfold
Their shroud, as at the summons; and I think
How sad that sound on every English heart
Smote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea⁹¹
Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it broke
First on the silence of the night, far heard
Through the deep forest! Phantoms of the past,
Ye gather round me! Voices of the dead,
Ye come by fits! And now I hear, far off,
Faint Eleesons swell, whilst to the fane
The long procession, and the pomp of death,
Moves visible; and now one voice is heard
From a vast multitude, Harold, farewell!
Farewell, and rest in peace! That sable car
Bears the last Saxon to his grave; the last
From Hengist, of the long illustrious line
That swayed the English sceptre. Hark! a cry!
'Tis from his mother, who, with frantic mien,
Follows the bier: with manly look composed,
Godwin, his eldest-born, and Adela,
Her head declined, her hand upon her brow
Beneath the veil, supported by his arm,
Sorrowing succeed! Lo! pensive Edmund there
Leads Wolfe, the least and youngest, by the hand!
Brothers and sisters, silent and in tears,
Follow their father to the dust, beneath
Whose eye they grew. Last and alone, behold,
Magnus,⁹² subduing the deep sigh, with brow
Of sterner acquiescence. Slowly pace
The sad remains of England's chivalry,
The few whom Hastings' field of carnage spared,
To follow their slain monarch's hearse this night,
Whose corse is borne beneath the escutcheoned pall,
To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train,
Imagination thus embodies it,
Moves onward to the abbey's western porch,
Whose windows and retiring aisles reflect
The long funereal lights. Twelve stoled monks,
Each with a torch, and pacing, two and two,
Along the pillared nave, with crucifix
Aloft, begin the supplicating chant,
Intoning "Miserere Domine."
Now the stone coffins in the earth are laid
Of Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth,⁹³
Brave brethren slain in one disastrous day.
And hark! again the monks and choristers
Sing, pacing round the grave-stone, "Requiem
Eternam dona iis." To his grave
So was King Harold borne, within those walls
His bounty raised: his children knelt and wept,
Then slow departed, never in this world,
Perhaps, to meet again. But who is she,
Her dark hair streaming on her brow, her eye
Wild, and her breast deep-heaving? She beheld
At distance the due rites, nor wept, nor spake,
And now is gone!
Alas! from that sad hour,
By many fates, all who that hour had met
Were scattered. Godwin, Edmund, Adela,
Exiles in Denmark, there a refuge found
From England's stormy fortunes. Three long years
Have passed; again they tread their native land.
The Danish armament beneath the Spurn⁹⁴
Is anchored. Twenty thousand men at arms
Follow huge Waltheof, on his barbed steed,
His battle-axe hung at the saddle-bow;
Morcar and Edwin, English earls, are there,
With red-cross banner, and ten thousand men
From Ely and Northumberland; they raise
The death-song of defiance, and advance
With bows of steel. From Scotland's mountain-glens,
From sky-blue lochs, and the wild highland heaths,
From Lothian villages, along the banks
Of Forth, King Malcolm leads his clansmen bold,
And, dauntless as romantic, bids unfurl
The banner of St Andrew; by his side
Mild Edgar Atheling, a stripling boy,
His brother, heir to England's throne, appears;
The dawn of youth on his fresh cheek; and, lo!
The broadswords glitter as the tartaned troops
March to the pibroch's sound. The Danish trump
Brays like a gong, heard to the holts and towns
Of Lincolnshire.
With crests and shields the same,
A lion frowning on each helmet's cone,
Like the two brothers famed in ancient song,⁹⁵
Godwin and Edmund, sons of Harold, lead
From Scandinavia and the Baltic isles
The impatient Northmen to the embattled host
On Humber's side. The standards wave in air,
Drums roll, and glittering columns file, and arms
Flash to the morn, and bannered-trumpets bray,
Heralds or armourers from tent to tent
Are hurrying; crests, and spears, and steel-bows gleam,
Far as the eye can reach; barbed horses neigh,
Their mailed riders wield the battle-axe,
Or draw the steel-bows with a clang; and, hark!
From the vast moving host is heard one shout,
Conquest or death! – as now the sun ascends,
And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur⁹⁶
Flings its first beam – one mighty shout is heard,
Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on! – to York!
 

CANTO FIRST

Castle of Ravenspur, on the Humber – Daughter of Harold – Ailric, the monk.

 
Let us go up to the west turret's top,
Adela cried; let us go up – the night
Is still, and to the east great ocean's hum
Is scarcely heard. If but a wandering step,
Or distant shout, or dip of hastening oar,
Or tramp of steed, or far-off trumpet, break
The hushed horizon, we can catch the sound
When breathless expectation watches there.
Upon the platform of the highest tower
Of Ravenspur, beneath the lonely lamp,
At midnight, leaning o'er the battlement,
The daughter of slain Harold, Adela,
And a gray monk who never left her side,
Watched: for this night or death or victory
The Saxon standard waits.
Hark! 'twas a shout,
And sounds at distance as of marching men!
No! all is silent, save the tide, that rakes,
At times, the beach, or breaks beneath the cliff.
Listen! was it the fall of hastening oars?
No! all is hushed! Oh! when will they return?
Adela sighed; for three long nights had passed,
Since her brave brothers left these bastioned walls,
And marched, with the confederate host, to York.
They come not: Have they perished? So dark thoughts
Arose, and then she raised her look to heaven,
And clasped the cross, and prayed more fervently.
Her lifted eye in the pale lamp-light shone,
Touched with a tear; soft airs of ocean blew
Her long light hair, whilst audibly she cried,
Preserve them, blessed Mary! oh! preserve
My brothers! As she prayed, one pale small star,
A still and lonely star, through the black night
Looked out, like hope! Instant, a trumpet rang,
And voices rose, and hurrying lights appeared;
Now louder shouts along the platform peal —
Oh! they are Normans! she exclaimed, and grasped
The old man's hand, and said, Yet we will die
As Harold's daughter; and, with mien and voice,
Firm and unfaltering, kissed the crucifix.
They knelt together, and the old man spoke:
All here is toil and tempest – we shall go,
Daughter of Harold, where the weary rest.
Oh! holy Mary, 'tis the clank of steel
Up the stone stairs! and, lo! beneath the lamp,
In arms, the beaver of his helmet raised,
Some light hairs straying on his ruddy cheek,
With breath hastily drawn, and cheering smile,
Young Atheling: The Saxon banner waves!
Oh! are my brothers safe? cried Adela,
Speak! speak! oh! tell me, do my brothers live?
Atheling answered: They will soon appear;
My post was on the eastern hills, a scout
Came breathless, sent from Edmund, and I hied,
With a small company, and horses fleet,
At his command, to thee. He bade me say,
Even now, upon the citadel of York,
Above the bursting fires, and rolling smoke,
The Saxon banner waves.
I thank thee, Lord!
My brothers live! cried Adela, and knelt
Upon the platform, with uplifted hands,
And look to heaven; – then rising, with a smile:
We have watched, I and this old man here,
Hour after hour, through the long lingering night,
And now 'tis almost morning: I will stay
Till I have heard my brother's distant horn
From the west woods; – but you are weary, youth?
Oh, no! I will keep watch with you till dawn;
To me most soothing is an hour like this!
And who that saw, as now, the morning stars
Begin to pale, and the gray twilight steal
So calmly on the seas, and wide-hushed world,
Could deem there was a sound of misery
On earth; nay, who could hear thy gentle voice,
Fair maid, and think there was a voice of hate
Or strife beneath the stillness of that cope
Above us! Oh! I hate the noise of arms —
Here will I watch with you. Then, after pause,
Poor England is not what it once has been;
And strange are both our fortunes.
Atheling,
(Adela answered) early piety
Hath disciplined my heart to every change.
How didst thou pass in safety from this land
Of slavery and sorrow?
He replied:
When darker jealousy and lowering hate
Sat on the brow of William, England mourned,
And one dark spirit of conspiracy
Muttered its curses through the land. 'Twas then,
With fiercer glare, the lion's eye was turned
On me: – My sisters and myself embarked —
The wide world was before us – we embarked,
With some few faithful friends, and from the sea
Gazed tearful, for a moment, on the shores
We left for ever (so it then appeared).
Poor Margaret hid her face; but the fresh wind
Swelled the broad mainsail, and the lessening land,
The towers, the spires, the villages, the smoke,
Were seen no more.
When now at sea, the winds
Blew adverse, for to Holland was our course:
More fearful rose the storm; the east wind sang
Louder, till wrecked upon the shores of Forth
Our vessel lay. Here, friendless, we implored
A short sojourn and succour. Scotland's king
Then sat in Dunfermline; he heard the tale
Of our distress, and flew himself to save;
But when he saw my sister Margaret,
Young, innocent, and beautiful in tears,
His heart was moved.
Oh! welcome here, he cried:
'Tis Heaven hath led you. Lady, look on me —
If such a flower be cast to the bleak winds,
'Twere meet I took and wore it next my heart.
Judged he not well, fair maid?
Thou know'st the rest;
Compassion nurtured love, and Margaret
(Such are the events of ruling Providence)
Is now all Scotland's queen!
To join the bands
Of warriors in one cause assembled here,
King Malcolm left his land of hills; his arm
Might make the Conqueror tremble on his throne!
Even should we fail, my sister Margaret
Would love and honour you; and I might hope,
(Oh! might I?) on the banks of Tay or Tweed
With thee to wander, where no curfew sounds,
And mark the summer sun, beyond the hills,
Sink in its glory, and then, hand in hand,
Wind through the woods, and —
Adela replied,
With smile complacent, Listen; I will be
(So to beguile the creeping hours of time)
A tale-teller. Two years we held sojourn
In Denmark; two long weary years, and sighed
When, looking on the southern deep, we thought
Of our poor country. Give me men and ships!
Godwin still cried; oh! give me men and ships!
The king commanded, and his armament —
A mightier never stemmed the Baltic deep,
Sent forth by sea-kings of the north, or bent
On hardier enterprise; for not some isle
Of the lone Orcades was now the prize,
But England's throne.
His mighty armament
Now left the shores of Denmark. Our brave ships
Burst through the Baltic straits, how gloriously!
I heard the trumpets ring; I saw the sails
Of nigh three hundred war-ships, the dim verge
Of the remote horizon's skiey track
Bestudding, here and there, like gems of light
Dropped from the radiance of the morning sun
On the gray waste of waters. So our ships
Swept o'er the billows of the north, and steered
Right on to England.
Foremost of the fleet
Our gallant vessel rode; around the mast
Emblazoned shields were ranged, and plumed crests
Shook as the north-east rose. Upon the prow,
More ardent, Godwin, my brave brother, stood,
And milder Edmund, on whose mailed arm
I hung, when the white waves before us swelled,
And parted. The broad banner, in full length,
Streamed out its folds, on which the Saxon horse
Ramped, as impatient on the land to leap,
To which the winds still bore it bravely on;
Whilst the red cross on the front banner shone,
The hoar deep crimsoning.
Winds, bear us on;
Bear us as cheerily, till white Albion's cliffs
Resound to our triumphant shouts; till there,
On his own Tower, that frowns above the Thames,
Even there we plant these banners and this cross,
And stamp the Conqueror and his crown to dust!
They would have kept me on a foreign shore;
But could I leave my brothers! I with them
Grew up, with them I left my native land,
With them all perils have I braved, of sea
Or war, all storms of hard adversity;
Let death betide, I reck not; all I ask
Is yet once more, in this sad world, to kneel
Upon my father's grave, and kiss the earth.
When the fourth morning gleamed along the deep,
England, Old England! burst the general cry:
England, Old England! Every eye, intent,
Was turned; and Godwin pointed with his sword
To Flamborough, pale rising o'er the surge.
Nearer into the kingdom's heart bear on
The death-storm of our vengeance! Godwin cried.
Soon, like a cloud, the northern Foreland rose —
Know ye those cliffs, towering in giant state!
But, hark! along the shores alarum-bells
Ring out more loud, blast answers blast, the swords
Of hurrying horsemen, and projected spears,
Flash to the sun. On yonder castle walls
A thousand bows are bent; again our course
Back to the north is turned. Now twilight veiled
The sinking sands of Yarmouth, and we heard
A long deep toll from many a village tower
On shore – and, lo! the scattered inland lights,
That sprinkled winding ocean's lowly verge,
At once are lost in darkness. God in heaven,
It is the curfew! Godwin cried, and smote
His forehead. We all heard that sullen sound
For the first time, that night; but the winds blew,
Our ship sailed out of hearing; yet we thought
Of the poor mother, who, on winter nights,
When her belated husband from the wood
Was not come back, her lonely taper lit,
And turned the glass, and saw the faggot-flame
Shine on the faces of her little ones:
Those times will ne'er return.
Darkness descends;
Again the sun is rising o'er the waves;
And now hoarse Humber roars beneath our keels,
And we have landed
Yea, and struck a blow,
Such as may make the crowned Conqueror quail,
Edgar replied.
Grant Heaven that we may live,
Adela cried, in love and peace again,
When every storm is past. But this good man
Is silent. Ailric, does no hope, even now,
Arise on thy dark heart? Good father, speak!
With aspect mild, on which its fitful light
The watch-tower lamp threw pale, the monk replied:
Youth, on thy light hair and ingenuous brow
Most comely sits the morn of life; on me,
And this bare head, the night of time descends
In sorrow. I look back upon the past,
And think of joy and sadness upon earth,
Like the vast ocean's fluctuating toil
From everlasting! I have seen its waste
Now in the sunshine sleeping; now high-ridged
With storms; and such the kingdoms of the earth.
Yes, youth, and flattering fortune, and the light
Of summer days, are as the radiance
That flits along the solitary waves,
Even whilst we gaze, and say, How beautiful!
So fitful and so perishing the dream
Of human things! But there is light above,
Undying; and, at times, faint harmonies
Heard, by the weary pilgrim, in his way
O'er perilous rocks, and through unwatered wastes,
Who looks up, fainting, and prays earnestly
To pass into that rest, whence sounds so sweet
Come, whispering of hope; else it were best
Beneath the load the forlorn heart endures
To sink at once; to shut the eyes on things
That sear the sight; and so to wrap the soul
In sullen, tearless, ruthless apathy!
Therefore, 'midst every human change, I drop
A tear upon the cross, and all is calm;
Yea, full of blissful and of brightest views,
On this dark tide of time.
Youth, thou hast known
Adversity; even in thy morn of life,
The springtide rainbow fades, and many days,
And many years, perchance, of weal or woe
Hang o'er thee! happy, if through every change
Thy constant heart, thy steadfast view, be fixed
Upon that better kingdom, where the crown
Immortal is held out to holy hope,
Beyond the clouds that rest upon the grave.
Oh! I remember when King Harold stood
Blooming in youth like thee; I saw him crowned —
I heard the loud voice of a nation hail
His rising star; then, flaming in mid-heaven
The red portentous comet,⁹⁷ like the hand
Upon the wall, came forth: its fatal course
All marked, and gazed in terror, as it looked
With lurid light upon this land. It passed;
Old men had many bodings; but I saw,
Reckless, King Harold, in his plumed helm,
Ride foremost of the mailed chivalry,
That, when the fierce Norwegian passed the seas,
Met his host man to man; I saw the sword,
Advanced and glittering, in the victor's hand,
That smote the Hardrada⁹⁸ to the earth! To-day
King Harold rose, like an avenging God;
To-morrow (so it seemed, so short the space),
To-morrow, through the field of blood, we sought
His mangled corse amid the heaps of slain:
Shall I recount the event more faithfully?
Its spectred memory never since that hour
Has left my heart.
William was in his tent,
Spread on the battle-plain, on that same night
When seventy thousand dead lay at his feet;
They who, at sunrise, with bent bows and spears,
Confronted and defied him, at his feet
Lay dead! Alone he watches in his tent,
At midnight; 'midst a sight so terrible
We came; we stood before him, where he sat,
I and my brother Osgood. Who are ye?
Sternly he asked; and Osgood thus replied:
Conqueror, and lord, and soon to be a king,
We, two poor monks of Waltham Abbey, kneel
Before thee, sorrowing! He who is slain
To us was bountiful. He raised those walls
Where we devote our life to prayer and praise.
Oh! by the mercies which the God of all
Hath shewn to thee this day, grant our request;
To search for his dead body, through this field
Of terror, that his bones may rest with us.
Your king hath met the meed of broken faith,
William replied. But yet he shall not want
A sepulchre; and on this very spot
My purpose stands, as I have vowed to God,
To build a holy monastery: here,
A hundred monks shall pray for all who fell
In this dread strife; and your King Harold here
Shall have due honours and a stately tomb.
Still on our knees, we answered, Oh! not so,
Dread sovereign; – hear us, of your clemency.
We beg his body; beg it for the sake
Of our successors; beg it for ourselves,
That we may bury it in the same spot
Himself ordained when living; where the choirs
May sing for his repose, in distant years,
When we are dust and ashes.
Then go forth,
And search for him, at the first dawn of day,
King William said. We crossed our breasts, and passed,
Slow rising, from his presence. So we went,
In silence, to the quarry of the dead.
The sun rose on that still and dismal host;
Toiling from corse to corse, we trod in blood,
From morn till noon toiling, and then I said,
Seek Editha, her whom he loved. She came;
And through the field of death she passed: she looked
On many a face, ghastly upturned; her hand
Unloosed the helmet, smoothed the clotted hair,
And many livid hands she took in hers;
Till, stooping o'er a mangled corse, she shrieked,
Then into tears burst audibly, and turned
Her face, and with a faltering voice pronounced,
Oh, Harold! We took up, and bore the corse
From that sad spot, and washed the ghastly wound
Deep in the forehead, where the broken barb
Was fixed.
So weltering from the field, we bore
King Harold's corse. A hundred Norman knights
Met the sad train, with pikes that trailed the ground.
Our old men prayed, and spoke of evil days
To come; the women smote their breasts and wept;
The little children knelt beside the way,
As on to Waltham the funereal car
Moved slow. Few and disconsolate the train
Of English earls, for few, alas! remained;
So many in the field of death lay cold.
The horses slowly paced, till Waltham towers
Before us rose. There, with long tapered blaze,
Our brethren met us, chanting, two and two,
The "Miserere" of the dead. And there —
But, my child Adela, you are in tears —
There at the foot of the high altar lies
The last of Saxon kings. Sad Editha,
At distance, watched the rites, and from that hour
We never saw her more.
A distant trump
Now rung – again! – again! – and thrice a trump
Has answered from the walls of Ravenspur.
My brothers! they are here! Adela cried,
And left the tower in breathless ardour. York
Flames to the sky! a general voice was heard —
The drawbridge clanks; into the inner court
A mailed man rides on – York is no more!
The cry without redoubles. On the ground
The rider flung his bloody sword, and raised
His helm, dismounting: the first dawn of day
Gleamed on the shattered plume. Oh! Adela,
He cried, your brother Godwin! and she flew,
And murmuring, My brave brother! hid her face,
Clasping his mailed breast. Soon gazing round,
She cried, But where is Edmund? Was he wont
To linger?
Edmund has a sacred charge,
Godwin replied. But trust his anxious love,
We soon shall hear his voice. I need some rest —
'Tis now broad day; but we have watched and fought:
I can sleep sound, though the shrill bird of morn
Mount and upbraid my slumbers with her song.
Tranquil and clear the autumnal day declined:
The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shades
On the gray bastioned walls; airs from the deep
Wandered, and touched the cordage as they passed,
Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirred
Scarce the quiescent pennant; the bright sea
Lay silent in its glorious amplitude,
Without; far up, in the pale atmosphere,
A white cloud, here and there, hung overhead,
And some red freckles streaked the horizon's edge,
Far as the sight could reach; beneath the rocks,
That reared their dark brows beetling o'er the bay,
The gulls and guillemots, with short quaint cry,
Just broke the sleeping stillness of the air,
Or, skimming, almost touched the level main,
With wings far seen, and more intensely white,
Opposed to the blue space; whilst Panope
Played in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream,
Inland, went sounding on, by rocks and sands
And castle, yet so sounding as it seemed
A voice amidst the hushed and listening world
That spoke of peace; whilst from the bastion's point
One piping red-breast might almost be heard.
Such quiet all things hushed, so peaceable
The hour: the very swallows, ere they leave
The coast to pass a long and weary way
O'er ocean's solitude, seem to renew
Once more their summer feelings, as a light
So sweet would last for ever, whilst they flock
In the brief sunshine of the turret-top.
'Twas at this hour of evening, Adela
And Godwin, now restored by rest, went forth,
Linked arm in arm, upon the eastern beach,
Beyond the headland's shade. If such an hour
Seemed smiling on the heart, how smiled it now
To him who yesternight, a soldier, stood
Amid the direst sight of human strife
And bloodshed; heard the cries, the trumpet's blast,
Ring o'er the dying; saw, with all its towers,
A city blazing to the midnight sky,
And mangled groups of miserable men,
Gasping or dead, whilst with his iron heel
He splashed the blood beneath! How changed the scene!
The sun's last light upon the battlements,
The sea, the landscape, the peace-breathing air,
Remembered both of the departed hours
Of early life, when once they had a home,
A country, where their father wore a crown.
What changes since that time, for them and all
They loved! how many found an early grave,
Cut off by the red sword! how many mourned,
Scattered by various fates, through distant lands!
How desolate their own poor country, bound
By the oppressor's chain! As thoughts like these
Arose, the bells of rural Nevilthorpe
Rang out a joyous peal, rang merrily,
For tidings heard from York: their melody
Mingled with things forgotten. Until then,
And then remembered freshly, Adela
That instant turned to hide her tears, and saw
Her brother Edmund leading by the hand
A boy of lovely mien and footstep light
Along the sands. My sister, Edmund cried,
See here a footpage I have brought from York
To serve a lady fair! The boy held out
His hand to Adela, as he would say,
Look, and protect me, lady. Adela,
Advancing with a smile and glowing cheek,
Cried, Welcome, truant brother; and then took
The child's right hand, and said, My pretty page,
And have you not a tale to tell to me?
The boy spake nothing, but looked earnestly
And anxiously at Edmund. Edmund said,
If he is silent, I must speak for him.
'Twas when the minster flamed, and, sword in hand,
Godwin, and Waltheof, and stern Hereward,
Directed the red slaughter; black with smoke
I burst into the citadel, and saw,
Not the grim warder, with his huge axe up,
But o'er her child, a frantic mother, mute⁹⁹
With horror, in delirious agony,
Clasping it to her bosom; stern and still
The father stood, his hand upon his brow,
As praying, in that hour, that God might make,
In mercy, the last trial brief. Fear not —
I am a man – nay, fear not me, I cried,
And seizing this child's hand, in safety placed,
Amidst the smoke, and sounds and sights of death,
Him and his mother! She with bursting heart
Knelt down to bless me: when I saw that boy,
So beautiful, I thought of Adela,
And said, Oh! trust with his preserver him
Whom every eye must view with tender love,
Oh! trust me; for his safety, lo! I pledge
My honour and my life.
And I have brought
My trusted charge, that you, my Adela,
May show him gentler courtesy than those
Whom war in its stern trade has almost steeled.
His sister kissed the child's light hair and cheek,
And folded his small hands in hers, and said,
You shall be my true knight, and wear a plume,
Wilt thou not, boy; and for a lady's love
Fight, like a valiant soldier! I will die,
The poor child said, for friends like those who saved
My father and my mother; and again
Adela kissed his forehead and his eyes,
And said, But we are Saxons!
As she spoke,
The winds began to muster, and the sea
Swelled with a sound more solemn, whilst the sun
Was sinking, and its last and lurid light
Streaked the long line of cumbrous clouds, that hung
In wild red masses o'er the murmuring deep,
Now flickering fast with foam. The sea-fowl flew
Rapidly on, o'er the black-lifted surge,
Borne down the wind, and then was seen no more.
Meantime the dark deep wilder heaves, and, hark!
Heavily overhead the gathered storm
Comes sounding!
Haste! – and in the castle-keep
List to the winds and waves that roar without.
 

CANTO SECOND

Waltham Forest – Tower – William and his Barons.

 
There had been fearful sounds in the air last night
In the wild wolds of Holderness, when York
Flamed to the midnight sky, and spells of death
Were heard amidst the depth of Waltham woods;
For there the wan and weird sisters met
Their imps, and the dark spirits that rejoice
When foulest deeds are done on earth, and there
In dread accordance rose their dismal joy.
 

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS

 
Around, around, around,
Troop and dance we to the sound,
Whilst mocking imps cry, Ho! ho! ho!
On earth there will be woe! more woe!
 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTHQUAKE

 
Arise, swart fiends, 'tis I command;
Burst your caves, and rock the land.
 

SPIRIT OF THE STORM

 
Loud tempests, sweep the conscious wood!
 

SPIRIT OF THE BATTLE

 
I scent from earth more blood! more blood!
 

SPIRIT OF THE FIRE

 
When the wounded cry,
And the craven die,
I will ride on the spires,
And the red volumes of the bursting fires.
 

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS

 
Around, around, around,
Dance we to the dismal sound
Of dying cries and mortal woe,
Whilst mocking imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!
 

FIRST SPIRIT

 
Hear!
Spirits that our 'hests perform
In the earthquake or the storm,
Appear, appear!
A fire is lighted – the pale smoke goes up;
Obscure, terrific features through the clouds
Are seen, and a wild laughter heard, We come!
 

FIRST MINISTERING SPIRIT

 
I have syllables of dread;
They can wake the dreamless dead.
 

SECOND SPIRIT

 
I, a dark sepulchral song,
That can lead hell's phantom-throng.
 

THIRD SPIRIT

 
Like a nightmare I will rest
This night upon King William's breast!
 

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS

 
Around, around, around,
Dance we to the dismal sound
Of dying shrieks and mortal woe,
Whilst antic imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!
 
 
They vanished, and the earth shook where they stood.
 
 
That night, King William first within the Tower
Received his vassal barons; in that Tower
Which oft since then has echoed to night-shrieks
Of secret murder, or the lone lament.
Now other sounds were heard, for on this night
Its canopied and vaulted chambers rang
With minstrelsy; whilst sounds of long acclaim
Re-echoed, from the loopholes, o'er the Thames
The drawbridge, and the ponderous cullis-gate,
Frowned on the moat; the flanking towers aspired
O'er the embattled walls, where proudly waved
The Norman banner. William, laugh to scorn
The murmurs of conspiracy and hate
That round thee gather, like the storms of night
Mustering, when murder hides her visored mien!
Now, what hast thou to fear! Let the fierce Dane
Into the centre of thy kingdom sweep,
With hostile armament, even like the tide
Of the hoarse Humber, on whose waves he rode!
Let foes confederate; let one voice of hate,
One cry of instant vengeance, one deep curse
Be heard, from Waltham woods to Holderness!
Let Waltheof, stern in steel; let Hereward,
Impatient as undaunted, flash their swords;
Let the boy Edgar, backed by Scotland's king,
Advance his feeble claim, and don his casque,
Whose brows might better a blue bonnet grace;
Let Edwin and vindictive Morcar join
The sons of Harold, – what hast thou to fear?
London's sole Tower might laugh their strength to scorn!
Upon that night when York's proud castle fell,
Here William held his court. The torches glared
On crest and crozier. Knights and prelates bowed
Before their sovereign. He, his knights and peers
Surveying with a stern complacency,
Inclined not from his seat, o'ercanopied
With golden valance, woven by no hand,
Save of the Queen. Yet calm his countenance
Shone, and his brow a dignified repose
Marked kingly; high his forehead, and besprent
With dark hair, interspersed with gray; his eye
Glanced amiable, chiefly when the light
Of a brief smile attempered majesty.
His beard was dark and heavy, yet diffused,
Low as the lion ramping on his breast
Engrailed upon the mail.
Odo approached,
And knelt, then rising, placed the diadem
Upon his brow, with laurels intertwined.
Again the voice of acclamation rang,
And from the galleries a hundred harps
Resounded Roland's song! Long live the King!
The barons, and the prelates, and the knights,
Long live the Conqueror! cried; a god on earth!
That instant the high vaulted chamber shook
As with a blast from heaven, and all was mute
Around him, and the very fortress rocked,
As it would topple on their heads. He rose
Disturbed and frowning, for tumultuous thoughts
Crowded like night upon his heart; then waved
His hand. The barons, abbots, knights retire.
Behold him now alone! before a lamp
A crucifix appears; upon the ground
Lies the same sword that Hastings' battle dyed
Deep to the hilt in gore; behold, he kneels
And prays, Thou only, Lord, art ever great;
Have mercy on my sins! The crucifix
Shook as he spoke, shook visibly, and, hark!
There is a low moan, as of dying men,
At distance heard.
Then William first knew fear.
He had heard tumults of the battle-field,
The noise, the glorious hurrahs, and the clang
Of trumpets round him, but no sound like this
Ere smote with unknown terror on his heart,
As if the eye of God that moment turned
And saw it beating.
Rising slow, he flung
Upon a couch his agitated limbs;
The lamp was near him; on the ground his sword
And helmet lay; short troubled slumbers stole,
And darkly rose the spirit of his dream.
He saw a field of blood, – it passed away;
A glittering palace rose, with mailed men
Thronged, and the voice of multitudes was heard
Acclaiming: suddenly the sounds had ceased,
The glittering palace vanished, and, behold!
Long winding cloisters, echoing to the chant
Of stoled fathers; and the mass-song ceased —
Then a dark tomb appeared, and, lo! a shape
As of a phantom-king!
Nearer it came,
And nearer yet, in silence, through the gloom.
Advancing – still advancing: the cold glare
Of armour shone as it approached, and now
It stands o'er William's couch! The spectre gazed
A while, then lifting its dark visor up —
Horrible vision! – shewed a grisly wound
Deep in its forehead, and therein appeared
Gouts, as yet dropping from an arrow's point
Infixed! And that red arrow's deadly barb
The shadow drew, and pointed at the breast
Of William; and the blood dropped on his breast;
And through his steely arms one drop of blood
Came cold as death's own hand upon his heart!
Whilst a deep voice was heard, Now sleep in peace,
I am avenged!
Starting, he exclaimed,
Hence, horrid phantom! Ho! Fitzalain, ho!
Montgomerie! Each baron, with a torch,
Before him stood. By dawn of day, he cried,
We will to horse. What passes in our thoughts
We shall unfold hereafter. By St Anne,
Albeit, not ten thousand phantoms sent
By the dead Harold can divert our course,
They may bear timely warning.
'Tis yet night —
Give me a battle-song ere daylight dawns;
The song of Roland, or of Charlemagne —
Or our own fight at Hastings.
Torches! ho!
And let the gallery blaze with lights! Awake,
Harpers of Normandy, awake! By Heaven,
I will not sleep till your full chords ring out
The song of England's conquest! Torches! ho!
He spoke. Again the blazing gallery
Echoed the harpers' song. Old Eustace led
The choir, and whilst the king paced to and fro,
Thus rose the bold, exulting symphony.
 

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS

 
The Norman armament beneath thy rocks, St Valerie,
Is moored; and, streaming to the morn, three hundred banners fly,
Of crimson silk; with golden cross, effulgent o'er the rest,
That banner, proudest in the fleet, streams, which the Lord had blessed.
The gale is fair, the sails are set, cheerily the south wind blows,
And Norman archers, all in steel, have grasped their good yew-bows;
Aloud the harpers strike their harps, whilst morning light is flung
Upon the cross-bows and the shields, that round the masts are hung.
Speed on, ye brave! 'tis William leads; bold barons, at his word,
Lo! sixty thousand men of might for William draw the sword.
 
 
So, bound to England's southern shore, we rolled upon the seas,
And gallantly the white sails set were, and swelling to the breeze.
On, on, to victory or death! now rose the general cry;
The minstrels sang, On, on, ye brave, to death or victory!
Mark yonder ship, how straight she steers; ye knights and barons brave,
'Tis William's ship, and proud she rides, the foremost o'er the wave.
And now we hailed the English coast, and, lo! on Beachy Head,
The radiance of the setting sun majestical is shed.
The fleet sailed on, till, Pevensey! we saw thy welcome strand;
Duke William now his anchor casts, and dauntless leaps to land.
 
 
The English host, by Harold led, at length appear in sight,
And now they raise a deafening shout, and stand prepared for fight;
The hostile legions halt a while, and their long lines display,
Now front to front they stand, in still and terrible array.
Give out the word, God, and our right! rush like a storm along,
Lift up God's banner, and advance, resounding Roland's song!
Ye spearmen, poise your lances well, by brave Montgomerie led,
Ye archers, bend your bows, and draw your arrows to the head.
They draw – the bent bows ring – huzzah! another flight, and hark!
How the sharp arrowy shower beneath the sun goes hissing dark.
 
 
Hark! louder grows the deadly strife, till all the battle-plain
Is red with blood, and heaped around with men and horses slain.
On, Normans, on! Duke William cried, and Harold, tremble thou,
Now think upon thy perjury, and of thy broken vow.
The banner¹⁰⁰ of thy armed knight, thy shield, thy helm are vain —
The fatal shaft has sped, – by Heaven! it hisses in his brain!
So William won the English crown, and all his foemen beat,
And Harold, and his Britons brave, lay silent at his feet.
Enough! the day is breaking, cried the King:
Away! away! be armed at my side,
Without attendants, and to horse, to horse!
 

CANTO THIRD

Waltham Abbey and Forest – Wild Woman of the Woods.