CANTO THIRD.

There had been fearful sounds in the air last nightIn the wild wolds of Holderness, when YorkFlamed to the midnight sky, and spells of deathWere heard amidst the depth of Waltham woods;4For there the wan and weird sisters metTheir imps, and the dark spirits that rejoiceWhen foulest deeds are done on earth, and thereIn dread accordance rose their dismal joy.

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS.

Around, around, around,Troop and dance we to the sound,10Whilst 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.20

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS.

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

FIRST SPIRIT.

Hear!25Spirits that our 'hests performIn the earthquake or the storm,Appear, appear!A fire is lighted—the pale smoke goes up;Obscure, terrific features through the clouds30Are seen, and a wild laughter heard, We come!

Hear!25Spirits that our 'hests performIn the earthquake or the storm,Appear, appear!

A fire is lighted—the pale smoke goes up;Obscure, terrific features through the clouds30Are 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 restThis night upon King William's breast!

SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGS.

Around, around, around,Dance we to the dismal soundOf dying shrieks and mortal woe,40Whilst antic imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!They vanished, and the earth shook where they stood.

Around, around, around,Dance we to the dismal soundOf dying shrieks and mortal woe,40Whilst antic imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!

They vanished, and the earth shook where they stood.

That night, King William first within the TowerReceived his vassal barons; in that TowerWhich oft since then has echoed to night-shrieksOf secret murder, or the lone lament.46Now other sounds were heard, for on this nightIts canopied and vaulted chambers rangWith minstrelsy; whilst sounds of long acclaimRe-echoed, from the loopholes, o'er the Thames50The drawbridge, and the ponderous cullis-gate,Frowned on the moat; the flanking towers aspiredO'er the embattled walls, where proudly wavedThe Norman banner. William, laugh to scornThe murmurs of conspiracy and hateThat round thee gather, like the storms of nightMustering, when murder hides her visored mien!Now, what hast thou to fear! Let the fierce DaneInto the centre of thy kingdom sweep,With hostile armament, even like the tide60Of the hoarse Humber, on whose waves he rode!Let foes confederate; let one voice of hate,One cry of instant vengeance, one deep curseBe 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 join70The 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 glaredOn crest and crozier. Knights and prelates bowedBefore their sovereign. He, his knights and peersSurveying with a stern complacency,Inclined not from his seat, o'ercanopiedWith golden valance, woven by no hand,Save of the Queen. Yet calm his countenance80Shone, and his brow a dignified reposeMarked kingly; high his forehead, and besprentWith dark hair, interspersed with gray; his eyeGlanced amiable, chiefly when the lightOf a brief smile attempered majesty.His beard was dark and heavy, yet diffused,Low as the lion ramping on his breastEngrailed upon the mail.Odo approached,And knelt, then rising, placed the diadem90Upon his brow, with laurels intertwined.Again the voice of acclamation rang,And from the galleries a hundred harpsResounded 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 shookAs with a blast from heaven, and all was muteAround him, and the very fortress rocked,As it would topple on their heads. He rose100Disturbed and frowning, for tumultuous thoughtsCrowded like night upon his heart; then wavedHis hand. The barons, abbots, knights retire.Behold him now alone! before a lampA crucifix appears; upon the groundLies the same sword that Hastings' battle dyedDeep to the hilt in gore; behold, he kneelsAnd prays, Thou only, Lord, art ever great;Have mercy on my sins! The crucifixShook as he spoke, shook visibly, and, hark!110There is a low moan, as of dying men,At distance heard.Then William first knew fear.113He had heard tumults of the battle-field,The noise, the glorious hurrahs, and the clangOf trumpets round him, but no sound like thisEre smote with unknown terror on his heart,As if the eye of God that moment turnedAnd saw it beating.Rising slow, he flung120Upon a couch his agitated limbs;The lamp was near him; on the ground his swordAnd 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 menThronged, and the voice of multitudes was heardAcclaiming: suddenly the sounds had ceased,The glittering palace vanished, and, behold!Long winding cloisters, echoing to the chant130Of stoled fathers; and the mass-song ceased—Then a dark tomb appeared, and, lo! a shapeAs of a phantom-king!Nearer it came,And nearer yet, in silence, through the gloom.Advancing—still advancing: the cold glareOf armour shone as it approached, and nowIt stands o'er William's couch! The spectre gazedA while, then lifting its dark visor up—Horrible vision!—shewed a grisly wound140Deep in its forehead, and therein appearedGouts, as yet dropping from an arrow's pointInfixed! And that red arrow's deadly barbThe shadow drew, and pointed at the breastOf William; and the blood dropped on his breast;And through his steely arms one drop of blood146Came 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,150Hence, 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 thoughtsWe shall unfold hereafter. By St Anne,Albeit, not ten thousand phantoms sentBy the dead Harold can divert our course,They may bear timely warning.'Tis yet night—Give me a battle-song ere daylight dawns;160The 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 outThe song of England's conquest! Torches! ho!He spoke. Again the blazing galleryEchoed the harpers' song. Old Eustace ledThe choir, and whilst the king paced to and fro,170Thus 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 flungUpon 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-plainIs 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 banner[100]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!

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-plainIs 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 banner[100]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!

Waltham Abbey and Forest—Wild Woman of the Woods.

At Waltham Abbey, o'er King Harold's graveA requiem was chanted; for last nightA passing spirit shook the battlements,And the pale monk, at midnight, as he watchedThe lamp, beheld it tremble; whilst the shrinesShook, as the deep foundations of the faneWere 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 shade10Of 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!20Forgive his sins, propitious be;21Dona 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!30By a nation's mingled moan,By liberty's expiring groan,By the saints, to whom 'tis givenTo 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 doorsOf the west portal, with a sound that shook40The vaulted roofs, burst open; and, behold!An armed Norman knight, the helmet closedUpon 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 graveOf 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 man50Rose up, nor speaking, nor inclining, paced51Back 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!60"Pacem" (as slow the stoled train retire),"Pacem," the shrines and fretted roofs returned.'Twas told, three Norman knights, in armour, spurredTheir foaming steeds to the West Abbey door;But who it was, that with his visor closedPassed 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 shadesOf Waltham forest.70He who foremost rodePassed his companions, on his fleeter steed,And, muttering in a dark and dreamy mood,Spurred on alone, till, looking round, he heardOnly the murmur of the woods above,Whilst soon all traces of a road were lostIn the inextricable maze. From mornTill eve, in the wild woods he wandered lost.Night followed, and the gathering storm was heardAmong the branches. List! there is no sound80Of horn far off, or tramp of toiling steed,Or call of some belated forester;No lonely taper lights the waste; the woods83Wave high their melancholy boughs, and bendBeneath the rising tempest. Heard ye notLow thunder to the north! The solemn rollRedoubles 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;90And, 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 copeComes sounding, and the drops fall heavilyWhere the strange knight is sheltered by the trunkOf a huge oak, whose dripping branches sweepFar round. Oh! happy, if beneath the flash100Some castle's bannered battlements were seen,Where the lone minstrel, as the storm of nightBlew loud without, beside the blazing hearthMight dry his hoary locks, and strike his harp(The fire relumined in his aged eyes)To songs of Charlemagne!Or, happier yetIf some gray convent's bell remote proclaimedThe hour of midnight service, when the chantWas up, and the long range of windows shone110Far off on the lone woods; whilst CharityMight bless and welcome, in a night like this,The veriest outcast! Angel of the storm,Ha! thy red bolt this instant shivering rivesThat blasted oak!The horse starts back, and bounds116From the knight's grasp. The way is dark and wild;As dark and wild as if the solitudeHad never heard the sound of human steps.Pondering he stood, when, by the lightning's glance,120The knight now marked a small and craggy pathDescending 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,130A stern voice answered,heof Harold spoke,Who feared his sword in the red front of war,Less than the powers of darkness: and he crossedHis breast, for at that instant rose the thoughtOf the weird sisters of the wold, that mockNight wanderers, and "syllable men's names"In savage solitude. If now, he cried,Dark minister, thy spells of wizard powerHave raised the storm and wild winds up, appear!He scarce had spoken, when, by the red flash140That glanced along the glen, half visible,Uprose a tall, majestic female form:So visible, her eyes' intenser lightShone wildly through the darkness; and her face,On which one pale flash more intently shone,Was like a ghost's by moonlight, as she stoodA moment seen: her lips appeared to move,Muttering, whilst her long locks of ebon hairStreamed o'er her forehead, by the bleak winds blown149Upon 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 thoughtShe had strange spells, such a mysterious powerWas round her; such terrific solitude,Such night, as of the kingdom of the grave;Whilst hurricanes seemed to obey her 'hest.160And 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;170Therefore 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 deedsIntent, I am a most poor woman, castInto 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 ears180As of a better world—ah, no! of daysOf happiness in this. Whence, who art thou?I am a Norman, woman; more to know183Seek 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 restUpon his soul.And, by our blessed Lord,The deed was holy, that lone woman said;And may the benediction of all saints,190Whoe'er thou art, rest on thy head. But say,What perilous mischance hath hither ledThy footsteps in an hour and night like this?Over his grave, of whom we spake, I heardThe 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 thoughtsNot of this world, I pressed my panting steed,The foremost of the Norman knights, and passed200The track, that, leading to the forest-ford,Winds through the opening thickets; on a heightI stood and listened, but no voice replied:The storm descended; at the lightning's flashMy good steed burst the reins, and frantic fled.I was alone: the small and craggy pathLed to this solitary glen; and here,As dark and troubled thoughts arose, I musedUpon the dead man's sleep; for God, I thought,This night spoke in the rocking of the winds!210There 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 heartWhen all is still! But shroud thee in this caveTill morning: such a sojourn may not pleaseA courtly knight, like echoing halls of joy.217I 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 abodeThe proud knight entered, with rain-drenched plume.Yet here I dwell in peace, the woman said,Remote from towns, nor start at the dire soundOf that accursed curfew! Soldier-knight,Thou art a Norman! Had the invader spurnedAll 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 fraud230Hourly surrounding him, at last compelledStern rigour to awake. What! shall the birdOf 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 beatToo roughly; but thy griefs he can requite.The indignant woman answered, He requite!240Can he bring back the dead? Can he restoreJoy to the broken-hearted? He requite!Can he pour plenty on the vales his frownHas blasted, bid sweet evening hear againThe village pipe, and the fair flowers reviveHis 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,250My buried countrymen! Of this no more!251Thou art a foe; but a brave soldier-knightWould scorn to wrong a woman; and if deathCould arm my hand this moment, thou wert safeIn a poor cottage as in royal halls.Here rest a while till morning dawns—the wayNo 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 feltEven as a man, when sacred sympathy260This morning led thee to King Harold's grave.The woman sat beside the hearth, and stirredThe embers, or with fern or brushwood raisedA fitful flame, but cautious, lest its lightSome roving forester might mark. At times,The small and trembling blaze shone on her face,Still beautiful, and showed the dark eye's fireBeneath her long black locks. When she stood up,A dignity, though in the garb of want,Seemed round her, chiefly when the brushwood-blaze270Glanced through the gloom, and touched the dusky mailOf 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,280With those whom on earth alone we love,And to wind through the greenwood together.But when 'tis winter weather,283And crosses grieve,And friends deceive,And rain and sleetThe lattice beat,—Oh! then 'tis sweetTo sit and singOf the friends with whom, in the days of spring,290We roamed through the greenwood together.The bloodhound slept upon the hearth; he raisedHis 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 meTo the world without a friend!Oh! thou art gone! and would, with thee,300Remembrance too had fled!She lives to bid me weep, and seeThe wreath I cherished dead.The knight, through the dim lattice, watched the cloudsOf morn, now slowly struggling in the east,When, with a voice more thrilling, and an airWilder, again a sad song she intoned:Upon the field of blood,Amidst the bleeding brave,O'er his pale corse I stood—310But he is in his grave!I wiped his gory brow,312I 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!320The woman said. Again the clarions rung:Like lightning, Alain and MontgomerieSpurred through the wood, and led a harnessed steedTo the lone cabin's entrance, whilst the trainSent 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 hereHaply I owe my life! Let her not need!Away! she cried, king of these realms, away!330I 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 breastStreamed, whilst her neck, as in disdain, she raised,Swelling, her eyes a wild terrific lightShot, and her voice, with intonation deep,Uttered a curse, that even the bloodhound crouchedBeneath her feet, whilst with stern look she spoke:Yes! I am Editha! she whom he loved—340She 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;345I 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 sword350Against his father's breast! Hark, hark! the chaseIs 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 curseOf this devoted land! Hence, to thy throne!The king a moment with compassion gazed,And now the clarions, and the horns, and trumpsRang louder; the bright banners in the winds360Waved beautiful; the neighing steeds aloftMantled their manes, and up the valley flew,And soon have left behind the glen, the caveOf solitary Editha, and soundsOf her last agony!Montgomerie,King William, turning, cried, when this whole landIs portioned (for till then we may not hopeFor lasting peace) forget not Editha.[103]In the gray beam the spires of London shone,370And the proud banner on the bastionOf 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 voiceFaltering, upon a steed, whose labouring chestHeaved, and whose bit was wet with blood and froth,376A 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,380King 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 clangRode onward (breathing vengeance) to the Tower.

Peace, oh! peace, be to the shade10Of 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!20Forgive his sins, propitious be;21Dona 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!30

By a nation's mingled moan,By liberty's expiring groan,By the saints, to whom 'tis givenTo 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 doorsOf the west portal, with a sound that shook40The vaulted roofs, burst open; and, behold!An armed Norman knight, the helmet closedUpon 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 graveOf 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 man50Rose up, nor speaking, nor inclining, paced51Back 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!60

"Pacem" (as slow the stoled train retire),"Pacem," the shrines and fretted roofs returned.'Twas told, three Norman knights, in armour, spurredTheir foaming steeds to the West Abbey door;But who it was, that with his visor closedPassed 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 shadesOf Waltham forest.70He who foremost rodePassed his companions, on his fleeter steed,And, muttering in a dark and dreamy mood,Spurred on alone, till, looking round, he heardOnly the murmur of the woods above,Whilst soon all traces of a road were lostIn the inextricable maze. From mornTill eve, in the wild woods he wandered lost.Night followed, and the gathering storm was heardAmong the branches. List! there is no sound80Of horn far off, or tramp of toiling steed,Or call of some belated forester;No lonely taper lights the waste; the woods83Wave high their melancholy boughs, and bendBeneath the rising tempest. Heard ye notLow thunder to the north! The solemn rollRedoubles 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;90And, 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 copeComes sounding, and the drops fall heavilyWhere the strange knight is sheltered by the trunkOf a huge oak, whose dripping branches sweepFar round. Oh! happy, if beneath the flash100Some castle's bannered battlements were seen,Where the lone minstrel, as the storm of nightBlew loud without, beside the blazing hearthMight dry his hoary locks, and strike his harp(The fire relumined in his aged eyes)To songs of Charlemagne!Or, happier yetIf some gray convent's bell remote proclaimedThe hour of midnight service, when the chantWas up, and the long range of windows shone110Far off on the lone woods; whilst CharityMight bless and welcome, in a night like this,The veriest outcast! Angel of the storm,Ha! thy red bolt this instant shivering rivesThat blasted oak!The horse starts back, and bounds116From the knight's grasp. The way is dark and wild;As dark and wild as if the solitudeHad never heard the sound of human steps.Pondering he stood, when, by the lightning's glance,120The knight now marked a small and craggy pathDescending 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,130A stern voice answered,heof Harold spoke,Who feared his sword in the red front of war,Less than the powers of darkness: and he crossedHis breast, for at that instant rose the thoughtOf the weird sisters of the wold, that mockNight wanderers, and "syllable men's names"In savage solitude. If now, he cried,Dark minister, thy spells of wizard powerHave raised the storm and wild winds up, appear!He scarce had spoken, when, by the red flash140That glanced along the glen, half visible,Uprose a tall, majestic female form:So visible, her eyes' intenser lightShone wildly through the darkness; and her face,On which one pale flash more intently shone,Was like a ghost's by moonlight, as she stoodA moment seen: her lips appeared to move,Muttering, whilst her long locks of ebon hairStreamed o'er her forehead, by the bleak winds blown149Upon 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 thoughtShe had strange spells, such a mysterious powerWas round her; such terrific solitude,Such night, as of the kingdom of the grave;Whilst hurricanes seemed to obey her 'hest.160And 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;170Therefore 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 deedsIntent, I am a most poor woman, castInto 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 ears180As of a better world—ah, no! of daysOf happiness in this. Whence, who art thou?I am a Norman, woman; more to know183Seek 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 restUpon his soul.And, by our blessed Lord,The deed was holy, that lone woman said;And may the benediction of all saints,190Whoe'er thou art, rest on thy head. But say,What perilous mischance hath hither ledThy footsteps in an hour and night like this?Over his grave, of whom we spake, I heardThe 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 thoughtsNot of this world, I pressed my panting steed,The foremost of the Norman knights, and passed200The track, that, leading to the forest-ford,Winds through the opening thickets; on a heightI stood and listened, but no voice replied:The storm descended; at the lightning's flashMy good steed burst the reins, and frantic fled.I was alone: the small and craggy pathLed to this solitary glen; and here,As dark and troubled thoughts arose, I musedUpon the dead man's sleep; for God, I thought,This night spoke in the rocking of the winds!210There 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 heartWhen all is still! But shroud thee in this caveTill morning: such a sojourn may not pleaseA courtly knight, like echoing halls of joy.217I 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 abodeThe proud knight entered, with rain-drenched plume.Yet here I dwell in peace, the woman said,Remote from towns, nor start at the dire soundOf that accursed curfew! Soldier-knight,Thou art a Norman! Had the invader spurnedAll 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 fraud230Hourly surrounding him, at last compelledStern rigour to awake. What! shall the birdOf 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 beatToo roughly; but thy griefs he can requite.The indignant woman answered, He requite!240Can he bring back the dead? Can he restoreJoy to the broken-hearted? He requite!Can he pour plenty on the vales his frownHas blasted, bid sweet evening hear againThe village pipe, and the fair flowers reviveHis 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,250My buried countrymen! Of this no more!251Thou art a foe; but a brave soldier-knightWould scorn to wrong a woman; and if deathCould arm my hand this moment, thou wert safeIn a poor cottage as in royal halls.Here rest a while till morning dawns—the wayNo 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 feltEven as a man, when sacred sympathy260This morning led thee to King Harold's grave.The woman sat beside the hearth, and stirredThe embers, or with fern or brushwood raisedA fitful flame, but cautious, lest its lightSome roving forester might mark. At times,The small and trembling blaze shone on her face,Still beautiful, and showed the dark eye's fireBeneath her long black locks. When she stood up,A dignity, though in the garb of want,Seemed round her, chiefly when the brushwood-blaze270Glanced through the gloom, and touched the dusky mailOf 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,280With those whom on earth alone we love,And to wind through the greenwood together.But when 'tis winter weather,283And crosses grieve,And friends deceive,And rain and sleetThe lattice beat,—Oh! then 'tis sweetTo sit and singOf the friends with whom, in the days of spring,290We roamed through the greenwood together.

The bloodhound slept upon the hearth; he raisedHis 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 meTo the world without a friend!Oh! thou art gone! and would, with thee,300Remembrance too had fled!She lives to bid me weep, and seeThe wreath I cherished dead.

The knight, through the dim lattice, watched the cloudsOf morn, now slowly struggling in the east,When, with a voice more thrilling, and an airWilder, again a sad song she intoned:

Upon the field of blood,Amidst the bleeding brave,O'er his pale corse I stood—310But he is in his grave!I wiped his gory brow,312I 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!320The woman said. Again the clarions rung:Like lightning, Alain and MontgomerieSpurred through the wood, and led a harnessed steedTo the lone cabin's entrance, whilst the trainSent 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 hereHaply I owe my life! Let her not need!Away! she cried, king of these realms, away!330I 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 breastStreamed, whilst her neck, as in disdain, she raised,Swelling, her eyes a wild terrific lightShot, and her voice, with intonation deep,Uttered a curse, that even the bloodhound crouchedBeneath her feet, whilst with stern look she spoke:Yes! I am Editha! she whom he loved—340She 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;345I 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 sword350Against his father's breast! Hark, hark! the chaseIs 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 curseOf this devoted land! Hence, to thy throne!The king a moment with compassion gazed,And now the clarions, and the horns, and trumpsRang louder; the bright banners in the winds360Waved beautiful; the neighing steeds aloftMantled their manes, and up the valley flew,And soon have left behind the glen, the caveOf solitary Editha, and soundsOf her last agony!Montgomerie,King William, turning, cried, when this whole landIs portioned (for till then we may not hopeFor lasting peace) forget not Editha.[103]In the gray beam the spires of London shone,370And the proud banner on the bastionOf 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 voiceFaltering, upon a steed, whose labouring chestHeaved, and whose bit was wet with blood and froth,376A 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,380King 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 clangRode onward (breathing vengeance) to the Tower.

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

The moon was high, when, 'mid the wildest woldsOf 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 groansOf 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.

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