The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

 
At Waltham Abbey, o'er King Harold's grave
A requiem was chanted; for last night
A passing spirit shook the battlements,
And the pale monk, at midnight, as he watched
The lamp, beheld it tremble; whilst the shrines
Shook, as the deep foundations of the fane
Were moved. Oh! pray for Harold's soul! he cried.
And now, at matin bell, the monks were met,
And slowly pacing round the grave, they sang:
 

DIRGE

 
Peace, oh! peace, be to the shade
Of him who here in earth is laid:
Saints and spirits of the blessed,
Look upon his bed of rest;
Forgive his sins, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
 
 
When, from yonder window's height,
The moonbeams on the floor are bright,
Sounds of viewless harps shall die,
Sounds of heaven's own harmony!
Forgive his sins, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
 
 
By the spirits of the brave,
Who died the land they loved to save;
By the soldier's faint farewell,
By freedom's blessing, where he fell;
Forgive his sins, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
 
 
By a nation's mingled moan,
By liberty's expiring groan,
By the saints, to whom 'tis given
To bear that parting groan to heaven;
To his shade propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
The proud and mighty —
As they sung, the doors
Of the west portal, with a sound that shook
The vaulted roofs, burst open; and, behold!
An armed Norman knight, the helmet closed
Upon his visage, but of stature tall,
His coal-black armour clanking as he trod,
Advancing up the middle aisle alone,
Approached: he gazed in silence on the grave
Of the last Saxon; there a while he stood,
Then knelt a moment, muttering a brief prayer:
The fathers crossed their breasts – the mass-song ceased;
Heedless of all around, the mailed man
Rose up, nor speaking, nor inclining, paced
Back through the sounding aisle, and left the fane.
The monks their interrupted song renewed:
 
 
The proud and mighty, when they die,
With the crawling worm shall lie;
But who would not a crown resign,
Harold, for a rest like thine!
Saviour Lord, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
 
 
"Pacem" (as slow the stoled train retire),
"Pacem," the shrines and fretted roofs returned.
'Twas told, three Norman knights, in armour, spurred
Their foaming steeds to the West Abbey door;
But who it was, that with his visor closed
Passed up the long and echoing fane alone,
And knelt on Harold's gravestone, none could tell.
The stranger knights in silence left the fane,
And soon were lost in the surrounding shades
Of Waltham forest.
He who foremost rode
Passed his companions, on his fleeter steed,
And, muttering in a dark and dreamy mood,
Spurred on alone, till, looking round, he heard
Only the murmur of the woods above,
Whilst soon all traces of a road were lost
In the inextricable maze. From morn
Till eve, in the wild woods he wandered lost.
Night followed, and the gathering storm was heard
Among the branches. List! there is no sound
Of horn far off, or tramp of toiling steed,
Or call of some belated forester;
No lonely taper lights the waste; the woods
Wave high their melancholy boughs, and bend
Beneath the rising tempest. Heard ye not
Low thunder to the north! The solemn roll
Redoubles through the darkening forest deep,
That sounds through all its solitude, and rocks,
As the long peal at distance rolls away.
Hark! the loud thunder crashes overhead;
And, as the red fire flings a fitful glare,
The branches of old oaks, and mossy trunks,
Distinct and visible shine out; and, lo!
Interminable woods, a moment seen,
Then lost again in deeper, lonelier night.
The torrent rain o'er the vast leafy cope
Comes sounding, and the drops fall heavily
Where the strange knight is sheltered by the trunk
Of a huge oak, whose dripping branches sweep
Far round. Oh! happy, if beneath the flash
Some castle's bannered battlements were seen,
Where the lone minstrel, as the storm of night
Blew loud without, beside the blazing hearth
Might dry his hoary locks, and strike his harp
(The fire relumined in his aged eyes)
To songs of Charlemagne!
Or, happier yet
If some gray convent's bell remote proclaimed
The hour of midnight service, when the chant
Was up, and the long range of windows shone
Far off on the lone woods; whilst Charity
Might bless and welcome, in a night like this,
The veriest outcast! Angel of the storm,
Ha! thy red bolt this instant shivering rives
That blasted oak!
The horse starts back, and bounds
From the knight's grasp. The way is dark and wild;
As dark and wild as if the solitude
Had never heard the sound of human steps.
Pondering he stood, when, by the lightning's glance,
The knight now marked a small and craggy path
Descending through the woody labyrinth.
He tracked his way slowly from brake to brake,
Till now he gained a deep sequestered glen.
I fear not storms, nor thunders, nor the sword,
The knight exclaimed: that eye alone I fear,
God's stern and steadfast eye upon the heart!
Yet peace is in the grave where Harold sleeps.
Who speaks of Harold? cried a woman's voice,
Heard through the deep night of the woods. He spoke,
A stern voice answered, he of Harold spoke,
Who feared his sword in the red front of war,
Less than the powers of darkness: and he crossed
His breast, for at that instant rose the thought
Of the weird sisters of the wold, that mock
Night wanderers, and "syllable men's names"
In savage solitude. If now, he cried,
Dark minister, thy spells of wizard power
Have raised the storm and wild winds up, appear!
He scarce had spoken, when, by the red flash
That glanced along the glen, half visible,
Uprose a tall, majestic female form:
So visible, her eyes' intenser light
Shone wildly through the darkness; and her face,
On which one pale flash more intently shone,
Was like a ghost's by moonlight, as she stood
A moment seen: her lips appeared to move,
Muttering, whilst her long locks of ebon hair
Streamed o'er her forehead, by the bleak winds blown
Upon her heaving breast.
The knight advanced;
The expiring embers from a cave within,
Now wakened by the night-air, shot a light,
Fitful and trembling, and this human form,
If it were human, at the entrance stood,
As seemed, of a rude cave. You might have thought
She had strange spells, such a mysterious power
Was round her; such terrific solitude,
Such night, as of the kingdom of the grave;
Whilst hurricanes seemed to obey her 'hest.
And she no less admired, when, front to front,
By the rekindling ember's darted gleam,
A mailed man, of proud illustrious port,
She marked; and thus, but with unfaltering voice,
She spake:
Yes! it was Harold's name I heard!
Whence, and what art thou? I have watched the night,
And listened to the tempest as it howled;
And whilst I listening lay, methought I heard,
Even now, the tramp as of a rushing steed;
Therefore I rose, and looked into the dark,
And now I hear one speak of Harold: say,
Whence, and what art thou, solitary man?
If lost and weary, enter this poor shed;
If wretched, pray with me; if on dark deeds
Intent, I am a most poor woman, cast
Into the depths of mortal misery!
The desolate have nought to lose: – pass on!
I had not spoken, but for Harold's name,
By thee pronounced: it sounded in my ears
As of a better world – ah, no! of days
Of happiness in this. Whence, who art thou?
I am a Norman, woman; more to know
Seek not: – and I have been to Harold's grave,
Remembering that the mightiest are but dust;
And I have prayed the peace of God might rest
Upon his soul.
And, by our blessed Lord,
The deed was holy, that lone woman said;
And may the benediction of all saints,
Whoe'er thou art, rest on thy head. But say,
What perilous mischance hath hither led
Thy footsteps in an hour and night like this?
Over his grave, of whom we spake, I heard
The mass-song sung. I knelt upon that grave,
And prayed for my own sins, I left the fane,
And heard the chanted rite at distance die.
Returning through these forest shades, with thoughts
Not of this world, I pressed my panting steed,
The foremost of the Norman knights, and passed
The track, that, leading to the forest-ford,
Winds through the opening thickets; on a height
I stood and listened, but no voice replied:
The storm descended; at the lightning's flash
My good steed burst the reins, and frantic fled.
I was alone: the small and craggy path
Led to this solitary glen; and here,
As dark and troubled thoughts arose, I mused
Upon the dead man's sleep; for God, I thought,
This night spoke in the rocking of the winds!
There is a Judge in heaven, the woman said,
Who seeth all things; and there is a voice,
Inaudible 'midst the tumultuous world,
That speaks of fear or comfort to the heart
When all is still! But shroud thee in this cave
Till morning: such a sojourn may not please
A courtly knight, like echoing halls of joy.
I have but some wild roots, a bed of fern,
And no companion save this bloodhound here,
Who, at my beck, would tear thee to the earth;
Yet enter – fear not! And that poor abode
The proud knight entered, with rain-drenched plume.
Yet here I dwell in peace, the woman said,
Remote from towns, nor start at the dire sound
Of that accursed curfew! Soldier-knight,
Thou art a Norman! Had the invader spurned
All charities in thy own native land,
Yes, thou wouldst know what injured Britons feel!
Nay, Englishwoman, thou dost wrong our king,
The knight replied: conspiracy and fraud
Hourly surrounding him, at last compelled
Stern rigour to awake. What! shall the bird
Of thunder slumber on the citadel,
And blench his eye of fire, when, looking down,
He sees, in ceaseless enmity combined,
Those who would pluck his feathers from his breast,
And cast them to the winds! Woman, on thee,
Haply, the tempest of the times has beat
Too roughly; but thy griefs he can requite.
The indignant woman answered, He requite!
Can he bring back the dead? Can he restore
Joy to the broken-hearted? He requite!
Can he pour plenty on the vales his frown
Has blasted, bid sweet evening hear again
The village pipe, and the fair flowers revive
His bloody footstep crushed? For poverty,
I reck it not: what is to me the night,
Spent cheerless, and in gloom and solitude?
I fix my eye upon that crucifix,
I mourn for those that are not – for my brave,
My buried countrymen! Of this no more!
Thou art a foe; but a brave soldier-knight
Would scorn to wrong a woman; and if death
Could arm my hand this moment, thou wert safe
In a poor cottage as in royal halls.
Here rest a while till morning dawns – the way
No mortal could retrace: – 'twill not be long,
And I can cheat the time with some old strain;
For, Norman though thou art, thy soul has felt
Even as a man, when sacred sympathy
This morning led thee to King Harold's grave.
The woman sat beside the hearth, and stirred
The embers, or with fern or brushwood raised
A fitful flame, but cautious, lest its light
Some roving forester might mark. At times,
The small and trembling blaze shone on her face,
Still beautiful, and showed the dark eye's fire
Beneath her long black locks. When she stood up,
A dignity, though in the garb of want,
Seemed round her, chiefly when the brushwood-blaze
Glanced through the gloom, and touched the dusky mail
Of the strange knight; then with sad smile she sung:
 
 
Oh! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green —
Oh! then 'tis sweet,
In some remote retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,
With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together.
But when 'tis winter weather,
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
And rain and sleet
The lattice beat, —
Oh! then 'tis sweet
To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring,
We roamed through the greenwood together.
 
 
The bloodhound slept upon the hearth; he raised
His head, and, through the dusk, his eyes were seen,
Fiery, a moment; but again he slept,
When she her song renewed.
 
 
Though thy words might well deceive me —
That is past – subdued I bend;
Yet, for mercy, do not leave me
To the world without a friend!
Oh! thou art gone! and would, with thee,
Remembrance too had fled!
She lives to bid me weep, and see
The wreath I cherished dead.
 
 
The knight, through the dim lattice, watched the clouds
Of morn, now slowly struggling in the east,
When, with a voice more thrilling, and an air
Wilder, again a sad song she intoned:
 
 
Upon the field of blood,
Amidst the bleeding brave,
O'er his pale corse I stood —
But he is in his grave!
I wiped his gory brow,
I smoothed his clotted hair —
But he is at peace, in the cold ground now;
Oh! when shall we meet there?
At once, horns, trumpets, and the shouts of men,
Were heard above the valley. At the sound,
The knight, upstarting from his dreamy trance,
High raised his vizor, and his bugle rang,
Answering. By God in heaven, thou art the king!
The woman said. Again the clarions rung:
Like lightning, Alain and Montgomerie
Spurred through the wood, and led a harnessed steed
To the lone cabin's entrance, whilst the train
Sent up a deafening shout, Long live the king!
He, ere he vaulted to the saddle-bow,
Turned with a look benevolent, and cried,
Barons and lords, to this poor woman here
Haply I owe my life! Let her not need!
Away! she cried, king of these realms, away!
I ask not wealth nor pity – least from thee,
Of all men. As the day began to dawn,
More fixed and dreadful seemed her steadfast look;
The long black hair upon her labouring breast
Streamed, whilst her neck, as in disdain, she raised,
Swelling, her eyes a wild terrific light
Shot, and her voice, with intonation deep,
Uttered a curse, that even the bloodhound crouched
Beneath her feet, whilst with stern look she spoke:
Yes! I am Editha! she whom he loved —
She whom thy sword has left in solitude,
How desolate! Yes, I am Editha!
And thou hast been to Harold's grave – oh! think,
King, where thy own will be! He rests in peace;
But even a spot is to thy bones denied;
I see thy carcase trodden under foot;
Thy children – his, with filial reverence,
Still think upon the spot where he is laid,
Though distant and far severed – but thy son,¹⁰¹
Thy eldest born, ah! see, he lifts the sword
Against his father's breast! Hark, hark! the chase
Is up! in that wild forest thou hast made!
The deer is flying – the loud horn resounds —
Hurrah! the arrow that laid Harold low,
It flies, it trembles in the Red King's heart!¹⁰²
 
 
Norman, Heaven's hand is on thee, and the curse
Of this devoted land! Hence, to thy throne!
The king a moment with compassion gazed,
And now the clarions, and the horns, and trumps
Rang louder; the bright banners in the winds
Waved beautiful; the neighing steeds aloft
Mantled their manes, and up the valley flew,
And soon have left behind the glen, the cave
Of solitary Editha, and sounds
Of her last agony!
Montgomerie,
King William, turning, cried, when this whole land
Is portioned (for till then we may not hope
For lasting peace) forget not Editha.¹⁰³
In the gray beam the spires of London shone,
And the proud banner on the bastion
Of William's tower was seen above the Thames,
As the gay train, slow winding through the woods,
Approached; when, lo! with spurs of blood, and voice
Faltering, upon a steed, whose labouring chest
Heaved, and whose bit was wet with blood and froth,
A courier met them.
York, O king! he cried,
York is in ashes! – all thy Normans slain!
Now, by the splendour of the throne of God,
King William cried, nor woman, man, nor child,
Shall live! Terrific flashed his eye of fire,
And darker grew his frown; then, looking up,
He drew his sword, and with a vow to Heaven,
Amid his barons, to the trumpet's clang
Rode onward (breathing vengeance) to the Tower.
 

CANTO FOURTH

Wilds of Holderness – Hags – Parting on the Humber – Waltham Abbey, and Grave – Conclusion.

 
The moon was high, when, 'mid the wildest wolds
Of Holderness, where erst that structure vast,
An idol-temple,¹⁰⁴ in old heathen times,
Frowned with gigantic shadow to the moon,
That oft had heard the dark song and the groans
Of sacrifice,
There the wan sisters met;
They circled the rude stone, and called the dead,
And sung by turns their more terrific song:
 

FIRST HAG

 
I looked in the seer's prophetic glass,
And saw the deeds that should come to pass;
From Carlisle-Wall to Flamborough Head,
The reeking soil was heaped with dead.
 

SECOND HAG

 
The towns were stirring at dawn of day,
And the children went out in the morn to play;
The lark was singing on holt and hill;
I looked again, but the towns were still;
The murdered child on the ground was thrown,
And the lark was singing to heaven alone.
 

THIRD HAG

 
I saw a famished mother lie,
Her lips were livid, and glazed her eye;
The tempest was rising, and sang in the south,
And I snatched the blade of grass from her mouth.
 

FOURTH HAG

 
By the rolling of the drums,
Hitherward King William comes!
The night is struggling with the day —
Hags of darkness, hence! away!
 
 
William is in the north; the avenging sword
Descended like a whirlwind where he passed;
Slaughter and Famine at his bidding wait,
Like lank, impatient bloodhounds, till he cries,
Pursue! Again the Norman banner floats
Triumphant on the citadel of York,
Where, circled with the blazonry of arms,
Amid his barons, William holds his state.
The boy preserved from death, young Malet, kneels,
With folded hands; his father, mother kneel,
Imploring clemency for Harold's sons;
For Edmund most. Bareheaded Waltheof bends,
And yields the keys! A breathless courier comes:
What tidings? O'er the seas the Danes are fled;
Morcar and Edwin in Northumberland,
Amidst its wildest mountains, seek to hide
Their broken hopes – their troops are all dispersed.
Malcolm alone, and the boy Atheling,
And the two sons of the dead Harold, wait
The winds to bear them to the North away.
Bid forth a thousand spearmen, William cried:
Now, by the resurrection, and the throne
Of God, King Malcolm shall repent the hour
He ere drew sword in England! Hence! away!
The west wind blows, the boat is on the beach,
The clansmen all embarked, the pipe is heard,
Whilst thoughtful Malcolm and young Atheling
Linger the last upon the shore; and there
Are Harold's children, the gray-headed monk,
Godwin, and Edmund, and poor Adela.
Then Malcolm spoke: The lot is cast! oh, fly
From this devoted land, and live with us,
Amidst our lakes and mountains! Adela,
Atheling whispered, does thy heart say Yes?
For in this world we ne'er may meet again.
The brief hour calls – come, Adela, exclaimed
Malcolm, and kindly took her hand. She looked
To heaven, and fell upon her knees, then rose,
And answered:
Sire, when my brave father fell,
We three were exiles on a distant shore;
And never, or in solitude or courts,
Was God forgotten – all is in his hand.
When those whom I had loved from infancy
Here joined the din of arms, I came with them;
With them I have partaken good and ill,
Have in the self-same mother's lap been laid,
The same eye gazed on us with tenderness,
And the same mother prayed prosperity
Might still be ours through life! Alas! our lot
How different!
Yet let them go with you,
I argue not – the first time in our lives,
If it be so, we here shall separate;
Whatever fate betide, I will not go
Till I have knelt upon my father's grave!
'Tis perilous to think, Atheling cried,
Most perilous – how 'scape the Norman's eye?
She turned, and with a solemn calmness said:
If we should perish, at the hour of death
My father will look down from heaven, and say,
Come, my poor child! oh, come where I am blessed!
My brothers, seek your safety. Here I stand
Resolved; and never will I leave these shores
Till I have knelt upon my father's grave!
We never will forsake thee! Godwin cried.
Let death betide, said Edmund, we will go,
Yes! go with thee, or perish!
As he spoke,
The pilot gave the signal. Then farewell!
King Malcolm cried, friends lately met, and now
To part for ever! and he kissed the cheek
Of Adela, and took brave Godwin's hand
And Edmund's, and then said, almost in tears,
It is not now too late! yet o'er my grave
So might a duteous daughter weep! God speed
Brave Malcolm to his father's land! they cried.
The ships beyond the promontory's point
Were anchored, and the tide was ebbing fast.
Then Ailric: Sire, not unforeseen by me
Was this sad day. Oh! King of Scotland, hear!
I was a brother of that holy house
Where Harold's bones are buried; from my vows
I was absolved, and followed – for I loved
His children – followed them through every fate.
My few gray hairs will soon descend in peace,
When I shall be forgotten; but till then,
My services, my last poor services,
To them I have devoted, for the sake
Of him, their father, and my king, to whom
All in this world I owed! Protect them, Lord,
And bless them, when the turf is on my head;
And, in their old age, may they sometimes think
Of Ailric, cold and shrouded in his grave,
When summer smiles! Sire, listen whilst I pray
One boon of thy compassion: not for me —
I reck not whether vengeance wake or sleep —
But for the safety of this innocent maid
I speak. South of the Humber, in a cave,
Concealed amidst the rocks and tangled brakes,
I have deposited some needful weeds
For this sad hour; for well, indeed, I knew,
If all should fail, this maiden's last resolve,
To kneel upon her father's grave, or die.
For this I have provided; but the time
Is precious, and the sun is westering slow;
The fierce eye of the lion may be turned
Upon this spot to-morrow! Adela,
Now hear your friend, your father! The fleet hour
Is passing, never to return: oh, seize
The instant! Thou, King Malcolm, grant my prayer!
If we embark, and leave the shores this night,
The voice of fame will bruit it far and wide,
That Harold's children fled with thee, and sought
A refuge in thy kingdom. None will know
Our destination. In thy boat conveyed,
We may be landed near the rocky cave;
The boat again ply to thy ships, and they
Plough homeward the north seas, whilst we are left
To fate. Again the pilot's voice was heard;
And, o'er the sand-hills, an approaching file
Of Norman soldiers, with projected spears,
Already seemed as rushing on their prey.
Then Ailric took the hand of Adela;
She and her brothers, and young Atheling,
And Scotland's king, are in one boat embarked.
Meantime the sun sets red, and twilight shades
The sinking hills. The solitary boat
Has reached the adverse shore.
Here, then, we part!
King Malcolm said; and every voice replied,
God speed brave Malcolm to his father's land!
Ailric, the brothers, and their sister, left
The boat; they stood upon the moonlit beach,
Still listening to the sounds, as they grew faint,
Of the receding oars, and watching still
If one white streak at distance, as they dipped,
Were seen, till all was solitude around.
Pensive, they sought a refuge for that night
In the bleak ocean-cave. The morning dawns;
The brothers have put off the plumes of war,
Dropping one tear upon the sword. Disguised
In garb to suit their fortunes, they appear
Like shipwrecked seamen of Armorica,
By a Franciscan hermit through the land
Led to St Alban's shrine, to offer vows,
Vows to the God who heard them in that hour
When all beside had perished in the storm.
Wrecked near his ocean-cave, an eremite
(So went the tale of their disastrous fate)
Sustained them, and now guides them through a land
Of strangers. That fair boy was wont to sing
Upon the mast, when the still ship went slow
Along the seas, in sunshine; and that garb
Conceals the lovely, light-haired Adela.
The cuckoo's note in the deep woods was heard
When forth, they fared. At many a convent gate
They stood and prayed for shelter, and their pace
Hastened, if, high amid the clouds, they marked
Some solitary castle lift its brow
Gray in the distance – hastened, so to reach,
Ere it grew dark, its hospitable towers.
There the lithe minstrel sung his roundelay:
 
 
Listen, lords and ladies bright!
I can sing of many a knight
Who fought in paynim lands afar;
Of Bevis, or of Iscapar.
I have tales of wandering maids,
And fairy elves in haunted glades,
Of phantom-troops that silent ride
By the moonlit forest's side.
I have songs (fair maidens, hear!)
To warn the lovelorn lady's ear.
The choice of all my treasures take,
And grant us food for pity's sake!
 
 
When tired, at noon, by the white waterfall,
In some romantic and secluded glen,
They sat, and heard the blackbird overhead
Singing, unseen, a song, such as they heard
In infancy.¹⁰⁵ So every vernal morn
Brought with it scents of flowers, or songs of birds,
Mingled with many shapings of old things,
And days gone by. Then up again, to scale
The airy mountain, and behold the plain
Stretching below, and fading far away,
How beautiful; yet still to feel a tear
Starting, even when it shone most beautiful,
To think, Here, in the country of our birth,
No rest is ours!
On, to our father's grave!
So southward through the country they had passed
Now many days, and casual shelter found
In villages, or hermit's lonely cave,
Or castle, high embattled on the point
Of some steep mountain, or in convent walls;
For most with pity heard his song, and marked
The countenance of the wayfaring boy;
Or when the pale monk, with his folded hands
Upon his breast, prayed, For the love of God,
Pity the poor, give alms; and bade them speed!
And now, in distant light, the pinnacles
Of a gray fane appeared, whilst on the woods
Still evening shed its parting light. Oh, say,
Say, villager, what towers are those that rise
Eastward beyond the alders?
Know ye not,
He answered, Waltham Abbey? Harold there
Is buried – he who in the fight was slain
At Hastings! To the cheek of Adela
A deadly paleness came. On – let us on!
Faintly she cried, and held her brother's arm,
And hid her face a moment with her hand.
And now the massy portal's sculptured arch
Before them rose.
Say, porter, Ailric cried,
Poor mariners, wrecked on the northern shores,
Ask charity. Does aged Osgood live?
Tell him a poor Franciscan, wandering far,
And wearied, for the love of God would ask
His charity.
Osgood came slowly forth;
The light that touched the western turret fell
On his pale face. The pilgrim-father said:
I am your brother Ailric – look on me!
And these are Harold's children!
Whilst he spoke,
Godwin, advancing, with emotion cried,
We are his children! I am Godwin, this
Is Edmund, and, lo! poor and in disguise,
Our sister! We would kneel upon his grave —
Our father's!
Come yet nearer, Osgood said,
Yet nearer! and that instant Adela
Looked up, and wiping from her eyes a tear,
Have you forgotten Adela?
O God!
The old man trembling cried, ye are indeed
Our benefactor's children! Adela,
Edmund, brave Godwin! welcome to these walls —
Welcome, my old companion! and he fell
Upon the neck of Ailric, and both wept.
Then Osgood: Children of that honoured lord
Who gave us all, go near and bless his grave.
One parting sunbeam yet upon the floor
Rested – it passed away, and darker gloom
Was gathering in the aisles. Each footstep's sound
Was more distinctly heard, for all beside
Was silent. Slow along the glimmering fane
They passed, like shadows risen from the tombs.
The entrance-door was closed, lest aught intrude
Upon the sanctity of this sad hour.
The inner choir they enter, part in shade
And part in light, for now the rising moon
Began to glance upon the shrines, and tombs,
And pillars. Trembling through the windows high,
One beam, a moment, on that cold gray stone
Is flung – the word "Infelix"¹⁰⁶ is scarce seen.
Behold his gravestone! Osgood said. Each eye
Was turned. A while intent they gazed, then knelt
Before the altar, on the marble stone!
No sound was heard through all the dim expanse
Of the vast building, none but of the air
That came in dying echoes up the aisle,
Like whispers heard at the confessional.
Thus Harold's children, hand in hand, knelt down —
Upon their father's grave knelt down, and prayed:
Have mercy on his soul – have mercy, Lord!
They knelt a lengthened space, and bowed their heads,
Some natural tears they shed, and crossed their breasts;
Then rising slowly up, looked round, and saw
A monk approaching near, unmarked before;
And in the further distance the tall form
As of a female. He who wore the hood
And habit of a monk approached and spoke:
Brothers! beloved sister! know ye not
These features? – and he raised his hood – Behold
Me – me, your brother Marcus! whom these weeds,
Since last we met, have hidden from the world:
Let me kneel with you here!
When Adela
Beheld him, she exclaimed, Oh! do we meet
Here, my lost brother, o'er a father's grave?
You live, restored a moment in this world,
To us as from the grave! And Godwin took
His hand, and said, My brother, tell us all;
How have you lived unknown? Oh! tell us all!
When in that grave our father, he replied,
Was laid, ye fled, and I in this sad land
Remained to cope with fortune. To these walls
I came, when Ailric, from his vows absolved,
With you was wandering. None my lineage knew,
Or name, but I some time had won regard
From the superior. Osgood knew me not,
For with Earl Edwin I had lived from youth.
To our superior thus I knelt and prayed:
Sir, I beseech you, for the love of God,
And of our Lady Mary, and St John,
You would receive me here to live and die
Among you. What most moved my heart to take
The vows was this, that here, from day to day,
From year to year, within the walls he raised,
I might behold my father's grave. This eve
I sat in the confessional, unseen,
When you approached. I scarce restrained the tear,
From many recollections, when I heard
A tale of sorrow and of sin. Come near,
Woman of woe! – and a wan woman stood
Before them, tall and stately; her dark eyes
Shone, as the uncertain lamp cast a brief glare,
And showed her neck, and raven hair, and lips
Moving. She spoke not, but advanced and knelt —
She, too – on Harold's grave; then prayed aloud,
O God, be merciful to him – and me!
Who art thou? Godwin cried.
Ah! know ye not
The wretched Editha? No children's love
Could equal mine! I trod among the dead —
Did I not, fathers? – trod among the dead
From corse to corse, or saw men's dying eyes
Fixed upon mine, and heard such groans as yet
Rive, with remembrance, my torn heart: I found
Him who rests here, where then he lay in blood!
When he was buried, I beheld the rites
At distance, and with broken heart retired
To the wild woods; there I have lived unseen
From that sad hour. Late when the tempest rocked,
At midnight, a proud soldier shelter sought
In my lone cell; 'twas when the storm was heard
Through the deep forest, and he too had knelt
At Harold's grave! Who was it? He! the king!
Say, fathers, was it not the hand of God
That led his footsteps there! – but has he learned
Humility? Oh! ask this bleeding land!
Last night a phantom came to me in dreams,
And a voice said, Come, visit my cold grave!
I came, by some mysterious impulse led;
I heard the even song, and when the sound
Had ceased, and all departed, save one monk,
Who stood and gazed upon this grave alone,
I prayed that he would hear me, at this hour,
Confess my secret sins, for my full heart
Was labouring. It was Harold's son who sat
In the confessional, to me unknown;
But all is now revealed – and lo! I stand
Before you!
As she spoke, a thrilling awe
Came to each heart: loftier she seemed to stand
In the dim moonlight; sorrowful, yet stern,
Her aspect; and her breast was seen to beat;
Her eyes were fixed, and shone with fearful light.
She raised her right hand, and her dark hair fell
Upon her neck, whilst all, scarce breathing, heard:
My spirit labours! she exclaimed. This night!
The tomb! the altar! Ha! the vision strains
My senses to oppression! Marked ye not
The trodden throne restored – the Saxon line¹⁰⁷
Of England's monarchs bursting through the gloom?
Lady, I look on thee! In distant years,
Even from the Northern throne which thou shalt share,¹⁰⁸
A warrior-monarch shall arise, whose arm,
In concert with this country, now bowed low,
Shall tear the eagle from a conqueror's grasp,
Far greater than this Norman!
Spare, O God!
My burning brain! Then, with a shriek, she fell,
Insensible, upon the Saxon's grave!
They bore her from the fane; and Godwin said,
Peace, peace be with her, now and evermore!
He, taking Marcus by the hand, Yet here
Thou shalt behold, behold from day to day,
This honoured grave! But where in the great world
Shall be thy place of rest, poor Adela?
O God, be ever with her! Marcus cried,
With her, and you, my brothers! Here we part,
Never to meet again. Whate'er your fate,
I shall remember with a brother's love,
And pray for you; but all my spirit rests
In other worlds – in worlds, oh! not like this!
Ye may return to this sad scene when I
Am dust and ashes; ye may yet return,
And visit this sad spot; perhaps when age
Or grief has brought such change of heart as now
I feel, then shall you look upon my grave,
And shed one tear for him whose latest prayer
Will be: Oh, bless you! bless my sister, Lord!
Then Adela, with lifted look composed:
Father, it is performed, – the duty vowed
When we returned to this devoted land,
The last sad duty of a daughter's love!
And now I go in peace – go to a world
Of sorrow, conscious that a father's voice
Speaks to my soul, and that thine eye, O God!
Whate'er the fortunes of our future days,
Is o'er us. Thou, direct our onward road!
O'er the last Saxon's grave, old Osgood raised
His hands and prayed:
Father of heaven and earth,
All is beneath Thine eye! 'Tis ours to bend
In silence. Children of misfortune, loved,
Revered – children of him who raised these roofs,
No home is found for you in this sad land;
And none, perhaps, may know the spot, or shed
A tear upon the earth where ye are laid!
So saying, on their heads he placed his hands,
And blessed them all; but, after pause, rejoined:
'Tis dangerous lingering here – the fire-eyed lynx
Would lap your blood! Westward, beyond the Lea,
There is a cell where ye may rest to-night.
The portal opened; on the battlements
The moonlight shone, silent and beautiful!
Before them lay their path through the wide world —
The nightingales were singing as they passed;
And, looking back upon the glimmering towers,
They, led by Ailric, and with thoughts on heaven,
Through the lone forest held their pensive way.
 

CONCLUSION

 
William, on his imperial throne, at York
Is seated, clad in steel, all but his face,
From casque to spur. His brow yet wears a frown,
And his eyes show the unextinguished fire
Of steadfast vengeance, as his inmost heart
Yet labours, like the ocean after storm.
His sword unsheathed appears, which none besides
Can wield; his sable beard, full and diffused,
Below the casque is spread; the lion ramps
Upon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold.
Behind him stand his barons, in dark file¹⁰⁹
Ranged, and each feature hid beneath the helms;
Spears, with escutcheoned banners on their points,
Above their heads are raised. Though all alike
Are cased in armour, know ye not that knight
Who next, behind the king, seems more intent
To listen, and a loftier stature bears?
'Tis bold Montgomerie; and he who kneels
Before the seat, his armour all with gules
Chequered, and chequered his small banneret,
Is Lord Fitzalain. William holds a scroll
In his right hand, and to Fitzalain speaks:
All these, the forfeited domains and land
Of Edwin and of Morcar, traitor-lords,
From Ely to the banks of Trent, I give
To thee and thine!
Fitzalian lowly knelt,
And kissed his iron hand; then slowly rose,
Whilst all the barons shouted, Live the king!
This is thy song, William the Conqueror,
The tale of Harold's children, and the grave
Of the last Saxon! The huge fortress frowns
Still on the Thames, where William's banner waved,
Though centuries year after year have passed,
As the stream flows for ever at its feet;
Harold, thy bones are scattered, and the tomb
That held them, where the Lea's lorn wave delayed,¹¹⁰
Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heard
The Eleeson pealing for thy soul,
A fragment stands, and none will know the spot
Where those whom thou didst love in dust repose,
Thy children! But the tale may not be vain,
If haply it awake one duteous thought
Of filial tenderness.
That day of blood
Is passed, like a dark spectre: but it speaks
Even to the kingdoms of the earth:
Behold
The hand of God! From that dark day of blood,
When Vengeance triumphed, and the curfew knolled,
England, thy proud majestic policy
Slowly arose! Through centuries of shade
The pile august of British liberty
Towered, till behold it stand in clearer light
Illustrious. At its base, fell Tyranny
Gnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;
Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skies
Uplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloft
Sounds o'er the subject seas, from east to west,
From north to south, her trumpet – England, live!
And rule, till waves and worlds shall be no more!
 

ILLUSTRATIONS FROM SPEED

"This victory thus obtained, Duke William wholly ascribed unto God, and by way of a solemne supplication or procession, gave him the thankes; and pitching for that night his pavilion among the bodies of the dead, the next day returned to Hastings, there to consult upon his great and most prosperously begun enterprise, giving first commandement for the buriall of his slain souldiers.