FOOTNOTES:[88]See the picture in Stodhard's Travels.[89]VideDrake's History of York, and Turner's History of England.
[88]See the picture in Stodhard's Travels.
[88]See the picture in Stodhard's Travels.
[89]VideDrake's History of York, and Turner's History of England.
[89]VideDrake's History of York, and Turner's History of England.
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.
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, belovedOf Liberty, where your brave fathers bled!The land of the white cliffs, where every cotWhose smoke goes up in the clear morning sky,On the green hamlet's edge, stands as secureAs the proud Norman castle's bannered keep!Oh! shall the poet paint a land of slaves,(Albeit, that the richest colours warmHis tablet, glowing from the master's hand,)10And thee forget, his country—thee, his home!Fair Italy! thy hills and olive-grovesA lovelier light empurples, or when mornStreams o'er the cloudless van of Apennine,Or more majestic eve, on the wide sceneOf columns, temples, arches, and aqueducts,Sits, like reposing Glory, and collectsHer richest radiance at that parting hour;18While distant domes, touched by her hand, shine outMore solemnly, 'mid the gray monumentsThat strew the illustrious plain; yet say, can these,Even when their pomp is proudest, and the sunSinks o'er the ruins of immortal Rome,A holy interest wake, intense as thatWhich visits his full heart, who, severed long,And home returning, sees once more the lightShine 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,30Ye blue Italian skies, and summer seas,By marble cliffs high-bounded, throwing farA gray illumination through the hazeOf orient morning; ye, Etruscan shades,Where Pan's own pines o'er Valambrosa wave;Scenes where old Tiber, for the mighty deadAs mourning, heavily rolls; or AnioFlings its white foam; or lucid Arno stealsOn gently through the plains of Tuscany;Be ye the impassioned themes of other song.40Nor mine, thou wondrous Western World, to callThe thunder of thy cataracts, or paintThe mountains and the vast volcano rangeOf Cordilleras, high above the stirOf human things; lifting to middle airTheir snows in everlasting solitude;Upon whose nether crags the vulture, lordOf summits inaccessible, looks down,Unhearing, when the thunder dies below!Nor, 'midst the irriguous valleys of the south,50Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea,Now pause I to admire the bright blue bird,52Brightest and least of all its kind, that spinsIts twinkling flight, still humming o'er the flowers,Like a gem of flitting light!To these adieu!Yet ere thy melodies, my harp, are muteFor ever, whilst the stealing day goes outWith slow-declining pace, I would essayOne patriot theme, one ancient British song:60So might I fondly dream, when the cold turfIs heaped above my head, and carping tonguesHave ceased, some tones, Old England, thy green hillsMight then remember.Time has reft the shrineWhere the last Saxon, canonized, lay,And every trace has vanished,[90]like the lightThat from the high-arched eastern window fell,With broken sunshine on his marble tomb—So have they passed; and silent are the choirs,70That 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 unfoldTheir shroud, as at the summons; and I thinkHow sad that sound on every English heart80Smote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea[91]Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it broke82First on the silence of the night, far heardThrough 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 faneThe long procession, and the pomp of death,Moves visible; and now one voice is heardFrom a vast multitude, Harold, farewell!90Farewell, and rest in peace! That sable carBears the last Saxon to his grave; the lastFrom Hengist, of the long illustrious lineThat 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 browBeneath the veil, supported by his arm,Sorrowing succeed! Lo! pensive Edmund there100Leads Wolfe, the least and youngest, by the hand!Brothers and sisters, silent and in tears,Follow their father to the dust, beneathWhose eye they grew. Last and alone, behold,Magnus,[92]subduing the deep sigh, with browOf sterner acquiescence. Slowly paceThe 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,110To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train,111Imagination thus embodies it,Moves onward to the abbey's western porch,Whose windows and retiring aisles reflectThe long funereal lights. Twelve stoled monks,Each with a torch, and pacing, two and two,Along the pillared nave, with crucifixAloft, begin the supplicating chant,Intoning "Miserere Domine."Now the stone coffins in the earth are laid120Of Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth,[93]Brave brethren slain in one disastrous day.And hark! again the monks and choristersSing, pacing round the grave-stone, "RequiemEternam dona iis." To his graveSo was King Harold borne, within those wallsHis 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 eye130Wild, and her breast deep-heaving? She beheldAt 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 metWere scattered. Godwin, Edmund, Adela,Exiles in Denmark, there a refuge foundFrom England's stormy fortunes. Three long yearsHave passed; again they tread their native land.The Danish armament beneath the Spurn[94]140Is anchored. Twenty thousand men at arms141Follow 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 menFrom Ely and Northumberland; they raiseThe death-song of defiance, and advanceWith bows of steel. From Scotland's mountain-glens,From sky-blue lochs, and the wild highland heaths,From Lothian villages, along the banks150Of Forth, King Malcolm leads his clansmen bold,And, dauntless as romantic, bids unfurlThe banner of St Andrew; by his sideMild 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 troopsMarch to the pibroch's sound. The Danish trumpBrays like a gong, heard to the holts and townsOf Lincolnshire.160With 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, leadFrom Scandinavia and the Baltic islesThe impatient Northmen to the embattled hostOn Humber's side. The standards wave in air,Drums roll, and glittering columns file, and armsFlash to the morn, and bannered-trumpets bray,Heralds or armourers from tent to tent170Are 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!474From the vast moving host is heard one shout,Conquest or death!—as now the sun ascends,And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur[96]Flings its first beam—one mighty shout is heard,Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on!—to York!
"Know ye the land where the bright orange glows!"Oh! rather know ye not the land, belovedOf Liberty, where your brave fathers bled!The land of the white cliffs, where every cotWhose smoke goes up in the clear morning sky,On the green hamlet's edge, stands as secureAs the proud Norman castle's bannered keep!Oh! shall the poet paint a land of slaves,(Albeit, that the richest colours warmHis tablet, glowing from the master's hand,)10And thee forget, his country—thee, his home!Fair Italy! thy hills and olive-grovesA lovelier light empurples, or when mornStreams o'er the cloudless van of Apennine,Or more majestic eve, on the wide sceneOf columns, temples, arches, and aqueducts,Sits, like reposing Glory, and collectsHer richest radiance at that parting hour;18While distant domes, touched by her hand, shine outMore solemnly, 'mid the gray monumentsThat strew the illustrious plain; yet say, can these,Even when their pomp is proudest, and the sunSinks o'er the ruins of immortal Rome,A holy interest wake, intense as thatWhich visits his full heart, who, severed long,And home returning, sees once more the lightShine 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,30Ye blue Italian skies, and summer seas,By marble cliffs high-bounded, throwing farA gray illumination through the hazeOf orient morning; ye, Etruscan shades,Where Pan's own pines o'er Valambrosa wave;Scenes where old Tiber, for the mighty deadAs mourning, heavily rolls; or AnioFlings its white foam; or lucid Arno stealsOn gently through the plains of Tuscany;Be ye the impassioned themes of other song.40Nor mine, thou wondrous Western World, to callThe thunder of thy cataracts, or paintThe mountains and the vast volcano rangeOf Cordilleras, high above the stirOf human things; lifting to middle airTheir snows in everlasting solitude;Upon whose nether crags the vulture, lordOf summits inaccessible, looks down,Unhearing, when the thunder dies below!Nor, 'midst the irriguous valleys of the south,50Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea,Now pause I to admire the bright blue bird,52Brightest and least of all its kind, that spinsIts twinkling flight, still humming o'er the flowers,Like a gem of flitting light!To these adieu!Yet ere thy melodies, my harp, are muteFor ever, whilst the stealing day goes outWith slow-declining pace, I would essayOne patriot theme, one ancient British song:60So might I fondly dream, when the cold turfIs heaped above my head, and carping tonguesHave ceased, some tones, Old England, thy green hillsMight then remember.
Time has reft the shrineWhere the last Saxon, canonized, lay,And every trace has vanished,[90]like the lightThat from the high-arched eastern window fell,With broken sunshine on his marble tomb—So have they passed; and silent are the choirs,70That 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 unfoldTheir shroud, as at the summons; and I thinkHow sad that sound on every English heart80Smote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea[91]Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it broke82First on the silence of the night, far heardThrough 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 faneThe long procession, and the pomp of death,Moves visible; and now one voice is heardFrom a vast multitude, Harold, farewell!90Farewell, and rest in peace! That sable carBears the last Saxon to his grave; the lastFrom Hengist, of the long illustrious lineThat 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 browBeneath the veil, supported by his arm,Sorrowing succeed! Lo! pensive Edmund there100Leads Wolfe, the least and youngest, by the hand!Brothers and sisters, silent and in tears,Follow their father to the dust, beneathWhose eye they grew. Last and alone, behold,Magnus,[92]subduing the deep sigh, with browOf sterner acquiescence. Slowly paceThe 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,110To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train,111Imagination thus embodies it,Moves onward to the abbey's western porch,Whose windows and retiring aisles reflectThe long funereal lights. Twelve stoled monks,Each with a torch, and pacing, two and two,Along the pillared nave, with crucifixAloft, begin the supplicating chant,Intoning "Miserere Domine."Now the stone coffins in the earth are laid120Of Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth,[93]Brave brethren slain in one disastrous day.And hark! again the monks and choristersSing, pacing round the grave-stone, "RequiemEternam dona iis." To his graveSo was King Harold borne, within those wallsHis 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 eye130Wild, and her breast deep-heaving? She beheldAt 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 metWere scattered. Godwin, Edmund, Adela,Exiles in Denmark, there a refuge foundFrom England's stormy fortunes. Three long yearsHave passed; again they tread their native land.The Danish armament beneath the Spurn[94]140Is anchored. Twenty thousand men at arms141Follow 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 menFrom Ely and Northumberland; they raiseThe death-song of defiance, and advanceWith bows of steel. From Scotland's mountain-glens,From sky-blue lochs, and the wild highland heaths,From Lothian villages, along the banks150Of Forth, King Malcolm leads his clansmen bold,And, dauntless as romantic, bids unfurlThe banner of St Andrew; by his sideMild 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 troopsMarch to the pibroch's sound. The Danish trumpBrays like a gong, heard to the holts and townsOf Lincolnshire.160With 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, leadFrom Scandinavia and the Baltic islesThe impatient Northmen to the embattled hostOn Humber's side. The standards wave in air,Drums roll, and glittering columns file, and armsFlash to the morn, and bannered-trumpets bray,Heralds or armourers from tent to tent170Are 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!474From the vast moving host is heard one shout,Conquest or death!—as now the sun ascends,And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur[96]Flings its first beam—one mighty shout is heard,Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on!—to York!
Castle of Ravenspur, on the Humber—Daughter of Harold—Ailric, the monk.
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 nightIs still, and to the east great ocean's humIs scarcely heard. If but a wandering step,Or distant shout, or dip of hastening oar,Or tramp of steed, or far-off trumpet, breakThe hushed horizon, we can catch the soundWhen breathless expectation watches there.Upon the platform of the highest towerOf Ravenspur, beneath the lonely lamp,10At 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 victoryThe Saxon standard waits.Hark! 'twas a shout,And sounds at distance as of marching men!No! all is silent, save the tide, that rakes,18At 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 thoughtsArose, 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 blewHer long light hair, whilst audibly she cried,30Preserve them, blessed Mary! oh! preserveMy brothers! As she prayed, one pale small star,A still and lonely star, through the black nightLooked 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 graspedThe old man's hand, and said, Yet we will dieAs Harold's daughter; and, with mien and voice,Firm and unfaltering, kissed the crucifix.40They 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 steelUp 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,50Speak! speak! oh! tell me, do my brothers live?Atheling answered: They will soon appear;52My post was on the eastern hills, a scoutCame 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!60My brothers live! cried Adela, and kneltUpon 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 stayTill I have heard my brother's distant hornFrom 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!70And who that saw, as now, the morning starsBegin to pale, and the gray twilight stealSo calmly on the seas, and wide-hushed world,Could deem there was a sound of miseryOn earth; nay, who could hear thy gentle voice,Fair maid, and think there was a voice of hateOr strife beneath the stillness of that copeAbove 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;80And strange are both our fortunes.Atheling,(Adela answered) early pietyHath disciplined my heart to every change.How didst thou pass in safety from this land85Of slavery and sorrow?He replied:When darker jealousy and lowering hateSat on the brow of William, England mourned,And one dark spirit of conspiracy90Muttered its curses through the land. 'Twas then,With fiercer glare, the lion's eye was turnedOn me:—My sisters and myself embarked—The wide world was before us—we embarked,With some few faithful friends, and from the seaGazed tearful, for a moment, on the shoresWe left for ever (so it then appeared).Poor Margaret hid her face; but the fresh windSwelled the broad mainsail, and the lessening land,The towers, the spires, the villages, the smoke,100Were seen no more.When now at sea, the windsBlew adverse, for to Holland was our course:More fearful rose the storm; the east wind sangLouder, till wrecked upon the shores of ForthOur vessel lay. Here, friendless, we imploredA short sojourn and succour. Scotland's kingThen sat in Dunfermline; he heard the taleOf our distress, and flew himself to save;But when he saw my sister Margaret,110Young, 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;118Compassion nurtured love, and Margaret(Such are the events of ruling Providence)Is now all Scotland's queen!To join the bandsOf warriors in one cause assembled here,King Malcolm left his land of hills; his armMight make the Conqueror tremble on his throne!Even should we fail, my sister MargaretWould love and honour you; and I might hope,(Oh! might I?) on the banks of Tay or TweedWith thee to wander, where no curfew sounds,And mark the summer sun, beyond the hills,130Sink 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 sojournIn Denmark; two long weary years, and sighedWhen, looking on the southern deep, we thoughtOf our poor country. Give me men and ships!Godwin still cried; oh! give me men and ships!140The king commanded, and his armament—A mightier never stemmed the Baltic deep,Sent forth by sea-kings of the north, or bentOn hardier enterprise; for not some isleOf the lone Orcades was now the prize,But England's throne.His mighty armamentNow left the shores of Denmark. Our brave shipsBurst through the Baltic straits, how gloriously!I heard the trumpets ring; I saw the sails150Of nigh three hundred war-ships, the dim vergeOf the remote horizon's skiey track152Bestudding, here and there, like gems of lightDropped from the radiance of the morning sunOn the gray waste of waters. So our shipsSwept o'er the billows of the north, and steeredRight on to England.Foremost of the fleetOur gallant vessel rode; around the mastEmblazoned shields were ranged, and plumed crests160Shook as the north-east rose. Upon the prow,More ardent, Godwin, my brave brother, stood,And milder Edmund, on whose mailed armI hung, when the white waves before us swelled,And parted. The broad banner, in full length,Streamed out its folds, on which the Saxon horseRamped, 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.170Winds, bear us on;Bear us as cheerily, till white Albion's cliffsResound 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 themGrew up, with them I left my native land,With them all perils have I braved, of sea180Or war, all storms of hard adversity;Let death betide, I reck not; all I askIs yet once more, in this sad world, to kneelUpon my father's grave, and kiss the earth.When the fourth morning gleamed along the deep,England, Old England! burst the general cry:186England, Old England! Every eye, intent,Was turned; and Godwin pointed with his swordTo Flamborough, pale rising o'er the surge.Nearer into the kingdom's heart bear onThe 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-bellsRing out more loud, blast answers blast, the swordsOf hurrying horsemen, and projected spears,Flash to the sun. On yonder castle wallsA thousand bows are bent; again our courseBack to the north is turned. Now twilight veiledThe sinking sands of Yarmouth, and we heard200A long deep toll from many a village towerOn 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 smoteHis forehead. We all heard that sullen soundFor the first time, that night; but the winds blew,Our ship sailed out of hearing; yet we thoughtOf the poor mother, who, on winter nights,When her belated husband from the wood210Was not come back, her lonely taper lit,And turned the glass, and saw the faggot-flameShine 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 landedYea, and struck a blow,219Such 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 manIs silent. Ailric, does no hope, even now,Arise on thy dark heart? Good father, speak!With aspect mild, on which its fitful lightThe watch-tower lamp threw pale, the monk replied:Youth, on thy light hair and ingenuous browMost comely sits the morn of life; on me,230And this bare head, the night of time descendsIn sorrow. I look back upon the past,And think of joy and sadness upon earth,Like the vast ocean's fluctuating toilFrom everlasting! I have seen its wasteNow in the sunshine sleeping; now high-ridgedWith storms; and such the kingdoms of the earth.Yes, youth, and flattering fortune, and the lightOf summer days, are as the radianceThat flits along the solitary waves,240Even whilst we gaze, and say, How beautiful!So fitful and so perishing the dreamOf human things! But there is light above,Undying; and, at times, faint harmoniesHeard, by the weary pilgrim, in his wayO'er perilous rocks, and through unwatered wastes,Who looks up, fainting, and prays earnestlyTo pass into that rest, whence sounds so sweetCome, whispering of hope; else it were bestBeneath the load the forlorn heart endures250To sink at once; to shut the eyes on thingsThat sear the sight; and so to wrap the soulIn sullen, tearless, ruthless apathy!253Therefore, 'midst every human change, I dropA 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 knownAdversity; even in thy morn of life,The springtide rainbow fades, and many days,260And many years, perchance, of weal or woeHang o'er thee! happy, if through every changeThy constant heart, thy steadfast view, be fixedUpon that better kingdom, where the crownImmortal is held out to holy hope,Beyond the clouds that rest upon the grave.Oh! I remember when King Harold stoodBlooming in youth like thee; I saw him crowned—I heard the loud voice of a nation hailHis rising star; then, flaming in mid-heaven270The red portentous comet,[97]like the handUpon the wall, came forth: its fatal courseAll marked, and gazed in terror, as it lookedWith 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,280That smote the Hardrada[98]to the earth! To-dayKing Harold rose, like an avenging God;To-morrow (so it seemed, so short the space),283To-morrow, through the field of blood, we soughtHis mangled corse amid the heaps of slain:Shall I recount the event more faithfully?Its spectred memory never since that hourHas left my heart.William was in his tent,Spread on the battle-plain, on that same night290When seventy thousand dead lay at his feet;They who, at sunrise, with bent bows and spears,Confronted and defied him, at his feetLay dead! Alone he watches in his tent,At midnight; 'midst a sight so terribleWe 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, kneel300Before thee, sorrowing! He who is slainTo us was bountiful. He raised those wallsWhere we devote our life to prayer and praise.Oh! by the mercies which the God of allHath shewn to thee this day, grant our request;To search for his dead body, through this fieldOf terror, that his bones may rest with us.Your king hath met the meed of broken faith,William replied. But yet he shall not wantA sepulchre; and on this very spot310My purpose stands, as I have vowed to God,To build a holy monastery: here,A hundred monks shall pray for all who fellIn this dread strife; and your King Harold hereShall have due honours and a stately tomb.Still on our knees, we answered, Oh! not so,Dread sovereign;—hear us, of your clemency.317We beg his body; beg it for the sakeOf our successors; beg it for ourselves,That we may bury it in the same spotHimself ordained when living; where the choirsMay 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,330From 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 lookedOn many a face, ghastly upturned; her handUnloosed 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 turnedHer face, and with a faltering voice pronounced,Oh, Harold! We took up, and bore the corse340From that sad spot, and washed the ghastly woundDeep in the forehead, where the broken barbWas fixed.So weltering from the field, we boreKing Harold's corse. A hundred Norman knightsMet the sad train, with pikes that trailed the ground.Our old men prayed, and spoke of evil daysTo come; the women smote their breasts and wept;The little children knelt beside the way,As on to Waltham the funereal car350Moved slow. Few and disconsolate the train351Of English earls, for few, alas! remained;So many in the field of death lay cold.The horses slowly paced, till Waltham towersBefore 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 liesThe last of Saxon kings. Sad Editha,360At distance, watched the rites, and from that hourWe never saw her more.A distant trumpNow rung—again!—again!—and thrice a trumpHas answered from the walls of Ravenspur.My brothers! they are here! Adela cried,And left the tower in breathless ardour. YorkFlames to the sky! a general voice was heard—The drawbridge clanks; into the inner courtA mailed man rides on—York is no more!370The cry without redoubles. On the groundThe rider flung his bloody sword, and raisedHis helm, dismounting: the first dawn of dayGleamed 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 wontTo linger?Edmund has a sacred charge,380Godwin 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 morn384Mount and upbraid my slumbers with her song.Tranquil and clear the autumnal day declined:The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shadesOn the gray bastioned walls; airs from the deepWandered, and touched the cordage as they passed,Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirred390Scarce the quiescent pennant; the bright seaLay 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,400With wings far seen, and more intensely white,Opposed to the blue space; whilst PanopePlayed in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream,Inland, went sounding on, by rocks and sandsAnd castle, yet so sounding as it seemedA voice amidst the hushed and listening worldThat spoke of peace; whilst from the bastion's pointOne piping red-breast might almost be heard.Such quiet all things hushed, so peaceableThe hour: the very swallows, ere they leave410The coast to pass a long and weary wayO'er ocean's solitude, seem to renewOnce more their summer feelings, as a lightSo sweet would last for ever, whilst they flockIn the brief sunshine of the turret-top.'Twas at this hour of evening, AdelaAnd Godwin, now restored by rest, went forth,Linked arm in arm, upon the eastern beach,418Beyond the headland's shade. If such an hourSeemed smiling on the heart, how smiled it nowTo him who yesternight, a soldier, stoodAmid the direst sight of human strifeAnd 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 heelHe splashed the blood beneath! How changed the scene!The sun's last light upon the battlements,The sea, the landscape, the peace-breathing air,430Remembered both of the departed hoursOf early life, when once they had a home,A country, where their father wore a crown.What changes since that time, for them and allThey 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, boundBy the oppressor's chain! As thoughts like theseArose, the bells of rural Nevilthorpe440Rang out a joyous peal, rang merrily,For tidings heard from York: their melodyMingled with things forgotten. Until then,And then remembered freshly, AdelaThat instant turned to hide her tears, and sawHer brother Edmund leading by the handA boy of lovely mien and footstep lightAlong the sands. My sister, Edmund cried,See here a footpage I have brought from YorkTo serve a lady fair! The boy held out450His hand to Adela, as he would say,Look, and protect me, lady. Adela,452Advancing with a smile and glowing cheek,Cried, Welcome, truant brother; and then tookThe 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 earnestlyAnd anxiously at Edmund. Edmund said,If he is silent, I must speak for him.'Twas when the minster flamed, and, sword in hand,460Godwin, and Waltheof, and stern Hereward,Directed the red slaughter; black with smokeI burst into the citadel, and saw,Not the grim warder, with his huge axe up,But o'er her child, a frantic mother, mute[99]With horror, in delirious agony,Clasping it to her bosom; stern and stillThe father stood, his hand upon his brow,As praying, in that hour, that God might make,In mercy, the last trial brief. Fear not—470I 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 heartKnelt down to bless me: when I saw that boy,So beautiful, I thought of Adela,And said, Oh! trust with his preserver himWhom every eye must view with tender love,Oh! trust me; for his safety, lo! I pledgeMy honour and my life.480And I have broughtMy trusted charge, that you, my Adela,May show him gentler courtesy than thoseWhom war in its stern trade has almost steeled.His sister kissed the child's light hair and cheek,485And 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 loveFight, like a valiant soldier! I will die,The poor child said, for friends like those who saved490My father and my mother; and againAdela kissed his forehead and his eyes,And said, But we are Saxons!As she spoke,The winds began to muster, and the seaSwelled with a sound more solemn, whilst the sunWas sinking, and its last and lurid lightStreaked the long line of cumbrous clouds, that hungIn wild red masses o'er the murmuring deep,Now flickering fast with foam. The sea-fowl flew500Rapidly 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 stormComes sounding!Haste!—and in the castle-keepList to the winds and waves that roar without.
Let us go up to the west turret's top,Adela cried; let us go up—the nightIs still, and to the east great ocean's humIs scarcely heard. If but a wandering step,Or distant shout, or dip of hastening oar,Or tramp of steed, or far-off trumpet, breakThe hushed horizon, we can catch the soundWhen breathless expectation watches there.Upon the platform of the highest towerOf Ravenspur, beneath the lonely lamp,10At 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 victoryThe Saxon standard waits.Hark! 'twas a shout,And sounds at distance as of marching men!No! all is silent, save the tide, that rakes,18At 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 thoughtsArose, 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 blewHer long light hair, whilst audibly she cried,30Preserve them, blessed Mary! oh! preserveMy brothers! As she prayed, one pale small star,A still and lonely star, through the black nightLooked 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 graspedThe old man's hand, and said, Yet we will dieAs Harold's daughter; and, with mien and voice,Firm and unfaltering, kissed the crucifix.40They 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 steelUp 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,50Speak! speak! oh! tell me, do my brothers live?Atheling answered: They will soon appear;52My post was on the eastern hills, a scoutCame 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!60My brothers live! cried Adela, and kneltUpon 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 stayTill I have heard my brother's distant hornFrom 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!70And who that saw, as now, the morning starsBegin to pale, and the gray twilight stealSo calmly on the seas, and wide-hushed world,Could deem there was a sound of miseryOn earth; nay, who could hear thy gentle voice,Fair maid, and think there was a voice of hateOr strife beneath the stillness of that copeAbove 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;80And strange are both our fortunes.Atheling,(Adela answered) early pietyHath disciplined my heart to every change.How didst thou pass in safety from this land85Of slavery and sorrow?He replied:When darker jealousy and lowering hateSat on the brow of William, England mourned,And one dark spirit of conspiracy90Muttered its curses through the land. 'Twas then,With fiercer glare, the lion's eye was turnedOn me:—My sisters and myself embarked—The wide world was before us—we embarked,With some few faithful friends, and from the seaGazed tearful, for a moment, on the shoresWe left for ever (so it then appeared).Poor Margaret hid her face; but the fresh windSwelled the broad mainsail, and the lessening land,The towers, the spires, the villages, the smoke,100Were seen no more.When now at sea, the windsBlew adverse, for to Holland was our course:More fearful rose the storm; the east wind sangLouder, till wrecked upon the shores of ForthOur vessel lay. Here, friendless, we imploredA short sojourn and succour. Scotland's kingThen sat in Dunfermline; he heard the taleOf our distress, and flew himself to save;But when he saw my sister Margaret,110Young, 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;118Compassion nurtured love, and Margaret(Such are the events of ruling Providence)Is now all Scotland's queen!To join the bandsOf warriors in one cause assembled here,King Malcolm left his land of hills; his armMight make the Conqueror tremble on his throne!Even should we fail, my sister MargaretWould love and honour you; and I might hope,(Oh! might I?) on the banks of Tay or TweedWith thee to wander, where no curfew sounds,And mark the summer sun, beyond the hills,130Sink 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 sojournIn Denmark; two long weary years, and sighedWhen, looking on the southern deep, we thoughtOf our poor country. Give me men and ships!Godwin still cried; oh! give me men and ships!140The king commanded, and his armament—A mightier never stemmed the Baltic deep,Sent forth by sea-kings of the north, or bentOn hardier enterprise; for not some isleOf the lone Orcades was now the prize,But England's throne.His mighty armamentNow left the shores of Denmark. Our brave shipsBurst through the Baltic straits, how gloriously!I heard the trumpets ring; I saw the sails150Of nigh three hundred war-ships, the dim vergeOf the remote horizon's skiey track152Bestudding, here and there, like gems of lightDropped from the radiance of the morning sunOn the gray waste of waters. So our shipsSwept o'er the billows of the north, and steeredRight on to England.Foremost of the fleetOur gallant vessel rode; around the mastEmblazoned shields were ranged, and plumed crests160Shook as the north-east rose. Upon the prow,More ardent, Godwin, my brave brother, stood,And milder Edmund, on whose mailed armI hung, when the white waves before us swelled,And parted. The broad banner, in full length,Streamed out its folds, on which the Saxon horseRamped, 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.170Winds, bear us on;Bear us as cheerily, till white Albion's cliffsResound 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 themGrew up, with them I left my native land,With them all perils have I braved, of sea180Or war, all storms of hard adversity;Let death betide, I reck not; all I askIs yet once more, in this sad world, to kneelUpon my father's grave, and kiss the earth.When the fourth morning gleamed along the deep,England, Old England! burst the general cry:186England, Old England! Every eye, intent,Was turned; and Godwin pointed with his swordTo Flamborough, pale rising o'er the surge.Nearer into the kingdom's heart bear onThe 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-bellsRing out more loud, blast answers blast, the swordsOf hurrying horsemen, and projected spears,Flash to the sun. On yonder castle wallsA thousand bows are bent; again our courseBack to the north is turned. Now twilight veiledThe sinking sands of Yarmouth, and we heard200A long deep toll from many a village towerOn 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 smoteHis forehead. We all heard that sullen soundFor the first time, that night; but the winds blew,Our ship sailed out of hearing; yet we thoughtOf the poor mother, who, on winter nights,When her belated husband from the wood210Was not come back, her lonely taper lit,And turned the glass, and saw the faggot-flameShine 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 landedYea, and struck a blow,219Such 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 manIs silent. Ailric, does no hope, even now,Arise on thy dark heart? Good father, speak!With aspect mild, on which its fitful lightThe watch-tower lamp threw pale, the monk replied:Youth, on thy light hair and ingenuous browMost comely sits the morn of life; on me,230And this bare head, the night of time descendsIn sorrow. I look back upon the past,And think of joy and sadness upon earth,Like the vast ocean's fluctuating toilFrom everlasting! I have seen its wasteNow in the sunshine sleeping; now high-ridgedWith storms; and such the kingdoms of the earth.Yes, youth, and flattering fortune, and the lightOf summer days, are as the radianceThat flits along the solitary waves,240Even whilst we gaze, and say, How beautiful!So fitful and so perishing the dreamOf human things! But there is light above,Undying; and, at times, faint harmoniesHeard, by the weary pilgrim, in his wayO'er perilous rocks, and through unwatered wastes,Who looks up, fainting, and prays earnestlyTo pass into that rest, whence sounds so sweetCome, whispering of hope; else it were bestBeneath the load the forlorn heart endures250To sink at once; to shut the eyes on thingsThat sear the sight; and so to wrap the soulIn sullen, tearless, ruthless apathy!253Therefore, 'midst every human change, I dropA 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 knownAdversity; even in thy morn of life,The springtide rainbow fades, and many days,260And many years, perchance, of weal or woeHang o'er thee! happy, if through every changeThy constant heart, thy steadfast view, be fixedUpon that better kingdom, where the crownImmortal is held out to holy hope,Beyond the clouds that rest upon the grave.Oh! I remember when King Harold stoodBlooming in youth like thee; I saw him crowned—I heard the loud voice of a nation hailHis rising star; then, flaming in mid-heaven270The red portentous comet,[97]like the handUpon the wall, came forth: its fatal courseAll marked, and gazed in terror, as it lookedWith 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,280That smote the Hardrada[98]to the earth! To-dayKing Harold rose, like an avenging God;To-morrow (so it seemed, so short the space),283To-morrow, through the field of blood, we soughtHis mangled corse amid the heaps of slain:Shall I recount the event more faithfully?Its spectred memory never since that hourHas left my heart.William was in his tent,Spread on the battle-plain, on that same night290When seventy thousand dead lay at his feet;They who, at sunrise, with bent bows and spears,Confronted and defied him, at his feetLay dead! Alone he watches in his tent,At midnight; 'midst a sight so terribleWe 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, kneel300Before thee, sorrowing! He who is slainTo us was bountiful. He raised those wallsWhere we devote our life to prayer and praise.Oh! by the mercies which the God of allHath shewn to thee this day, grant our request;To search for his dead body, through this fieldOf terror, that his bones may rest with us.Your king hath met the meed of broken faith,William replied. But yet he shall not wantA sepulchre; and on this very spot310My purpose stands, as I have vowed to God,To build a holy monastery: here,A hundred monks shall pray for all who fellIn this dread strife; and your King Harold hereShall have due honours and a stately tomb.Still on our knees, we answered, Oh! not so,Dread sovereign;—hear us, of your clemency.317We beg his body; beg it for the sakeOf our successors; beg it for ourselves,That we may bury it in the same spotHimself ordained when living; where the choirsMay 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,330From 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 lookedOn many a face, ghastly upturned; her handUnloosed 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 turnedHer face, and with a faltering voice pronounced,Oh, Harold! We took up, and bore the corse340From that sad spot, and washed the ghastly woundDeep in the forehead, where the broken barbWas fixed.So weltering from the field, we boreKing Harold's corse. A hundred Norman knightsMet the sad train, with pikes that trailed the ground.Our old men prayed, and spoke of evil daysTo come; the women smote their breasts and wept;The little children knelt beside the way,As on to Waltham the funereal car350Moved slow. Few and disconsolate the train351Of English earls, for few, alas! remained;So many in the field of death lay cold.The horses slowly paced, till Waltham towersBefore 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 liesThe last of Saxon kings. Sad Editha,360At distance, watched the rites, and from that hourWe never saw her more.A distant trumpNow rung—again!—again!—and thrice a trumpHas answered from the walls of Ravenspur.My brothers! they are here! Adela cried,And left the tower in breathless ardour. YorkFlames to the sky! a general voice was heard—The drawbridge clanks; into the inner courtA mailed man rides on—York is no more!370The cry without redoubles. On the groundThe rider flung his bloody sword, and raisedHis helm, dismounting: the first dawn of dayGleamed 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 wontTo linger?Edmund has a sacred charge,380Godwin 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 morn384Mount and upbraid my slumbers with her song.Tranquil and clear the autumnal day declined:The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shadesOn the gray bastioned walls; airs from the deepWandered, and touched the cordage as they passed,Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirred390Scarce the quiescent pennant; the bright seaLay 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,400With wings far seen, and more intensely white,Opposed to the blue space; whilst PanopePlayed in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream,Inland, went sounding on, by rocks and sandsAnd castle, yet so sounding as it seemedA voice amidst the hushed and listening worldThat spoke of peace; whilst from the bastion's pointOne piping red-breast might almost be heard.Such quiet all things hushed, so peaceableThe hour: the very swallows, ere they leave410The coast to pass a long and weary wayO'er ocean's solitude, seem to renewOnce more their summer feelings, as a lightSo sweet would last for ever, whilst they flockIn the brief sunshine of the turret-top.'Twas at this hour of evening, AdelaAnd Godwin, now restored by rest, went forth,Linked arm in arm, upon the eastern beach,418Beyond the headland's shade. If such an hourSeemed smiling on the heart, how smiled it nowTo him who yesternight, a soldier, stoodAmid the direst sight of human strifeAnd 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 heelHe splashed the blood beneath! How changed the scene!The sun's last light upon the battlements,The sea, the landscape, the peace-breathing air,430Remembered both of the departed hoursOf early life, when once they had a home,A country, where their father wore a crown.What changes since that time, for them and allThey 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, boundBy the oppressor's chain! As thoughts like theseArose, the bells of rural Nevilthorpe440Rang out a joyous peal, rang merrily,For tidings heard from York: their melodyMingled with things forgotten. Until then,And then remembered freshly, AdelaThat instant turned to hide her tears, and sawHer brother Edmund leading by the handA boy of lovely mien and footstep lightAlong the sands. My sister, Edmund cried,See here a footpage I have brought from YorkTo serve a lady fair! The boy held out450His hand to Adela, as he would say,Look, and protect me, lady. Adela,452Advancing with a smile and glowing cheek,Cried, Welcome, truant brother; and then tookThe 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 earnestlyAnd anxiously at Edmund. Edmund said,If he is silent, I must speak for him.'Twas when the minster flamed, and, sword in hand,460Godwin, and Waltheof, and stern Hereward,Directed the red slaughter; black with smokeI burst into the citadel, and saw,Not the grim warder, with his huge axe up,But o'er her child, a frantic mother, mute[99]With horror, in delirious agony,Clasping it to her bosom; stern and stillThe father stood, his hand upon his brow,As praying, in that hour, that God might make,In mercy, the last trial brief. Fear not—470I 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 heartKnelt down to bless me: when I saw that boy,So beautiful, I thought of Adela,And said, Oh! trust with his preserver himWhom every eye must view with tender love,Oh! trust me; for his safety, lo! I pledgeMy honour and my life.480And I have broughtMy trusted charge, that you, my Adela,May show him gentler courtesy than thoseWhom war in its stern trade has almost steeled.His sister kissed the child's light hair and cheek,485And 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 loveFight, like a valiant soldier! I will die,The poor child said, for friends like those who saved490My father and my mother; and againAdela kissed his forehead and his eyes,And said, But we are Saxons!As she spoke,The winds began to muster, and the seaSwelled with a sound more solemn, whilst the sunWas sinking, and its last and lurid lightStreaked the long line of cumbrous clouds, that hungIn wild red masses o'er the murmuring deep,Now flickering fast with foam. The sea-fowl flew500Rapidly 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 stormComes sounding!Haste!—and in the castle-keepList to the winds and waves that roar without.
Waltham Forest—Tower—William and his Barons.
Waltham Forest—Tower—William and his Barons.