I looked in the seer's prophetic glass,10And saw the deeds that should come to pass;From Carlisle-Wall to Flamborough Head,12The reeking soil was heaped with dead.
I looked in the seer's prophetic glass,10And saw the deeds that should come to pass;From Carlisle-Wall to Flamborough Head,12The reeking soil was heaped with dead.
SECOND HAG.
The towns were stirring at dawn of day,And the children went out in the morn to play;The lark was singing on holt and hill;I looked again, but the towns were still;The murdered child on the ground was thrown,And the lark was singing to heaven alone.
The towns were stirring at dawn of day,And the children went out in the morn to play;The lark was singing on holt and hill;I looked again, but the towns were still;The murdered child on the ground was thrown,And the lark was singing to heaven alone.
THIRD HAG.
I saw a famished mother lie,20Her lips were livid, and glazed her eye;The tempest was rising, and sang in the south,And I snatched the blade of grass from her mouth.
I saw a famished mother lie,20Her lips were livid, and glazed her eye;The tempest was rising, and sang in the south,And I snatched the blade of grass from her mouth.
FOURTH HAG.
By the rolling of the drums,Hitherward King William comes!The night is struggling with the day—Hags of darkness, hence! away!William is in the north; the avenging swordDescended like a whirlwind where he passed;Slaughter and Famine at his bidding wait,30Like lank, impatient bloodhounds, till he cries,Pursue! Again the Norman banner floatsTriumphant on the citadel of York,Where, circled with the blazonry of arms,Amid his barons, William holds his state.The boy preserved from death, young Malet, kneels,With folded hands; his father, mother kneel,Imploring clemency for Harold's sons;For Edmund most. Bareheaded Waltheof bends,39And yields the keys! A breathless courier comes:What tidings? O'er the seas the Danes are fled;Morcar and Edwin in Northumberland,Amidst its wildest mountains, seek to hideTheir broken hopes—their troops are all dispersed.Malcolm alone, and the boy Atheling,And the two sons of the dead Harold, waitThe winds to bear them to the North away.Bid forth a thousand spearmen, William cried:Now, by the resurrection, and the throneOf God, King Malcolm shall repent the hour50He ere drew sword in England! Hence! away!The west wind blows, the boat is on the beach,The clansmen all embarked, the pipe is heard,Whilst thoughtful Malcolm and young AthelingLinger the last upon the shore; and thereAre Harold's children, the gray-headed monk,Godwin, and Edmund, and poor Adela.Then Malcolm spoke: The lot is cast! oh, flyFrom this devoted land, and live with us,Amidst our lakes and mountains! Adela,60Atheling whispered, does thy heart say Yes?For in this world we ne'er may meet again.The brief hour calls—come, Adela, exclaimedMalcolm, and kindly took her hand. She lookedTo heaven, and fell upon her knees, then rose,And answered:Sire, when my brave father fell,We three were exiles on a distant shore;And never, or in solitude or courts,Was God forgotten—all is in his hand.70When those whom I had loved from infancyHere joined the din of arms, I came with them;With them I have partaken good and ill,73Have in the self-same mother's lap been laid,The same eye gazed on us with tenderness,And the same mother prayed prosperityMight still be ours through life! Alas! our lotHow different!Yet let them go with you,I argue not—the first time in our lives,80If it be so, we here shall separate;Whatever fate betide, I will not goTill I have knelt upon my father's grave!'Tis perilous to think, Atheling cried,Most perilous—how 'scape the Norman's eye?She turned, and with a solemn calmness said:If we should perish, at the hour of deathMy father will look down from heaven, and say,Come, my poor child! oh, come where I am blessed!My brothers, seek your safety. Here I stand90Resolved; and never will I leave these shoresTill I have knelt upon my father's grave!We never will forsake thee! Godwin cried.Let death betide, said Edmund, we will go,Yes! go with thee, or perish!As he spoke,The pilot gave the signal. Then farewell!King Malcolm cried, friends lately met, and nowTo part for ever! and he kissed the cheekOf Adela, and took brave Godwin's hand100And Edmund's, and then said, almost in tears,It is not now too late! yet o'er my graveSo might a duteous daughter weep! God speedBrave Malcolm to his father's land! they cried.The ships beyond the promontory's pointWere anchored, and the tide was ebbing fast.Then Ailric: Sire, not unforeseen by me107Was this sad day. Oh! King of Scotland, hear!I was a brother of that holy houseWhere Harold's bones are buried; from my vowsI was absolved, and followed—for I lovedHis children—followed them through every fate.My few gray hairs will soon descend in peace,When I shall be forgotten; but till then,My services, my last poor services,To them I have devoted, for the sakeOf him, their father, and my king, to whomAll in this world I owed! Protect them, Lord,And bless them, when the turf is on my head;And, in their old age, may they sometimes think120Of Ailric, cold and shrouded in his grave,When summer smiles! Sire, listen whilst I prayOne boon of thy compassion: not for me—I reck not whether vengeance wake or sleep—But for the safety of this innocent maidI speak. South of the Humber, in a cave,Concealed amidst the rocks and tangled brakes,I have deposited some needful weedsFor this sad hour; for well, indeed, I knew,If all should fail, this maiden's last resolve,130To kneel upon her father's grave, or die.For this I have provided; but the timeIs precious, and the sun is westering slow;The fierce eye of the lion may be turnedUpon this spot to-morrow! Adela,Now hear your friend, your father! The fleet hourIs passing, never to return: oh, seizeThe instant! Thou, King Malcolm, grant my prayer!If we embark, and leave the shores this night,The voice of fame will bruit it far and wide,140That Harold's children fled with thee, and sought141A refuge in thy kingdom. None will knowOur destination. In thy boat conveyed,We may be landed near the rocky cave;The boat again ply to thy ships, and theyPlough homeward the north seas, whilst we are leftTo fate. Again the pilot's voice was heard;And, o'er the sand-hills, an approaching fileOf Norman soldiers, with projected spears,Already seemed as rushing on their prey.150Then Ailric took the hand of Adela;She and her brothers, and young Atheling,And Scotland's king, are in one boat embarked.Meantime the sun sets red, and twilight shadesThe sinking hills. The solitary boatHas reached the adverse shore.Here, then, we part!King Malcolm said; and every voice replied,God speed brave Malcolm to his father's land!Ailric, the brothers, and their sister, left160The boat; they stood upon the moonlit beach,Still listening to the sounds, as they grew faint,Of the receding oars, and watching stillIf one white streak at distance, as they dipped,Were seen, till all was solitude around.Pensive, they sought a refuge for that nightIn the bleak ocean-cave. The morning dawns;The brothers have put off the plumes of war,Dropping one tear upon the sword. DisguisedIn garb to suit their fortunes, they appear170Like shipwrecked seamen of Armorica,By a Franciscan hermit through the landLed to St Alban's shrine, to offer vows,Vows to the God who heard them in that hourWhen all beside had perished in the storm.175Wrecked near his ocean-cave, an eremite(So went the tale of their disastrous fate)Sustained them, and now guides them through a landOf strangers. That fair boy was wont to singUpon the mast, when the still ship went slow180Along the seas, in sunshine; and that garbConceals the lovely, light-haired Adela.The cuckoo's note in the deep woods was heardWhen forth, they fared. At many a convent gateThey stood and prayed for shelter, and their paceHastened, if, high amid the clouds, they markedSome solitary castle lift its browGray in the distance—hastened, so to reach,Ere it grew dark, its hospitable towers.There the lithe minstrel sung his roundelay:190Listen, lords and ladies bright!I can sing of many a knightWho fought in paynim lands afar;Of Bevis, or of Iscapar.I have tales of wandering maids,And fairy elves in haunted glades,Of phantom-troops that silent rideBy the moonlit forest's side.I have songs (fair maidens, hear!)To warn the lovelorn lady's ear.200The choice of all my treasures take,And grant us food for pity's sake!When tired, at noon, by the white waterfall,In some romantic and secluded glen,They sat, and heard the blackbird overheadSinging, unseen, a song, such as they heardIn infancy.[105]So every vernal morn207Brought with it scents of flowers, or songs of birds,Mingled with many shapings of old things,And days gone by. Then up again, to scaleThe airy mountain, and behold the plainStretching below, and fading far away,How beautiful; yet still to feel a tearStarting, even when it shone most beautiful,To think, Here, in the country of our birth,No rest is ours!On, to our father's grave!So southward through the country they had passedNow many days, and casual shelter foundIn villages, or hermit's lonely cave,220Or castle, high embattled on the pointOf some steep mountain, or in convent walls;For most with pity heard his song, and markedThe countenance of the wayfaring boy;Or when the pale monk, with his folded handsUpon his breast, prayed, For the love of God,Pity the poor, give alms; and bade them speed!And now, in distant light, the pinnaclesOf a gray fane appeared, whilst on the woodsStill evening shed its parting light. Oh, say,230Say, villager, what towers are those that riseEastward beyond the alders?Know ye not,He answered, Waltham Abbey? Harold thereIs buried—he who in the fight was slainAt Hastings! To the cheek of AdelaA deadly paleness came. On—let us on!Faintly she cried, and held her brother's arm,And hid her face a moment with her hand.And now the massy portal's sculptured arch240Before them rose.Say, porter, Ailric cried,Poor mariners, wrecked on the northern shores,Ask charity. Does aged Osgood live?Tell him a poor Franciscan, wandering far,And wearied, for the love of God would askHis charity.Osgood came slowly forth;The light that touched the western turret fellOn his pale face. The pilgrim-father said:250I am your brother Ailric—look on me!And these are Harold's children!Whilst he spoke,Godwin, advancing, with emotion cried,We are his children! I am Godwin, thisIs Edmund, and, lo! poor and in disguise,Our sister! We would kneel upon his grave—Our father's!Come yet nearer, Osgood said,Yet nearer! and that instant Adela260Looked up, and wiping from her eyes a tear,Have you forgotten Adela?O God!The old man trembling cried, ye are indeedOur benefactor's children! Adela,Edmund, brave Godwin! welcome to these walls—Welcome, my old companion! and he fellUpon the neck of Ailric, and both wept.Then Osgood: Children of that honoured lordWho gave us all, go near and bless his grave.270One parting sunbeam yet upon the floorRested—it passed away, and darker gloomWas gathering in the aisles. Each footstep's soundWas more distinctly heard, for all beside274Was silent. Slow along the glimmering faneThey passed, like shadows risen from the tombs.The entrance-door was closed, lest aught intrudeUpon the sanctity of this sad hour.The inner choir they enter, part in shadeAnd part in light, for now the rising moon280Began to glance upon the shrines, and tombs,And pillars. Trembling through the windows high,One beam, a moment, on that cold gray stoneIs flung—the word "Infelix"[106]is scarce seen.Behold his gravestone! Osgood said. Each eyeWas turned. A while intent they gazed, then kneltBefore the altar, on the marble stone!No sound was heard through all the dim expanseOf the vast building, none but of the airThat came in dying echoes up the aisle,290Like whispers heard at the confessional.Thus Harold's children, hand in hand, knelt down—Upon their father's grave knelt down, and prayed:Have mercy on his soul—have mercy, Lord!They knelt a lengthened space, and bowed their heads,Some natural tears they shed, and crossed their breasts;Then rising slowly up, looked round, and sawA monk approaching near, unmarked before;And in the further distance the tall formAs of a female. He who wore the hood300And habit of a monk approached and spoke:Brothers! beloved sister! know ye notThese features?—and he raised his hood—BeholdMe—me, your brother Marcus! whom these weeds,Since last we met, have hidden from the world:Let me kneel with you here!When Adela407Beheld him, she exclaimed, Oh! do we meetHere, my lost brother, o'er a father's grave?You live, restored a moment in this world,To us as from the grave! And Godwin tookHis hand, and said, My brother, tell us all;How have you lived unknown? Oh! tell us all!When in that grave our father, he replied,Was laid, ye fled, and I in this sad landRemained to cope with fortune. To these wallsI came, when Ailric, from his vows absolved,With you was wandering. None my lineage knew,Or name, but I some time had won regardFrom the superior. Osgood knew me not,420For with Earl Edwin I had lived from youth.To our superior thus I knelt and prayed:Sir, I beseech you, for the love of God,And of our Lady Mary, and St John,You would receive me here to live and dieAmong you. What most moved my heart to takeThe vows was this, that here, from day to day,From year to year, within the walls he raised,I might behold my father's grave. This eveI sat in the confessional, unseen,430When you approached. I scarce restrained the tear,From many recollections, when I heardA tale of sorrow and of sin. Come near,Woman of woe!—and a wan woman stoodBefore them, tall and stately; her dark eyesShone, as the uncertain lamp cast a brief glare,And showed her neck, and raven hair, and lipsMoving. She spoke not, but advanced and knelt—She, too—on Harold's grave; then prayed aloud,O God, be merciful to him—and me!440Who art thou? Godwin cried.Ah! know ye notThe wretched Editha? No children's loveCould equal mine! I trod among the dead—Did I not, fathers?—trod among the deadFrom corse to corse, or saw men's dying eyesFixed upon mine, and heard such groans as yetRive, with remembrance, my torn heart: I foundHim who rests here, where then he lay in blood!When he was buried, I beheld the rites450At distance, and with broken heart retiredTo the wild woods; there I have lived unseenFrom that sad hour. Late when the tempest rocked,At midnight, a proud soldier shelter soughtIn my lone cell; 'twas when the storm was heardThrough the deep forest, and he too had kneltAt Harold's grave! Who was it? He! the king!Say, fathers, was it not the hand of GodThat led his footsteps there!—but has he learnedHumility? Oh! ask this bleeding land!460Last night a phantom came to me in dreams,And a voice said, Come, visit my cold grave!I came, by some mysterious impulse led;I heard the even song, and when the soundHad ceased, and all departed, save one monk,Who stood and gazed upon this grave alone,I prayed that he would hear me, at this hour,Confess my secret sins, for my full heartWas labouring. It was Harold's son who satIn the confessional, to me unknown;470But all is now revealed—and lo! I standBefore you!As she spoke, a thrilling awe473Came to each heart: loftier she seemed to standIn the dim moonlight; sorrowful, yet stern,Her aspect; and her breast was seen to beat;Her eyes were fixed, and shone with fearful light.She raised her right hand, and her dark hair fellUpon her neck, whilst all, scarce breathing, heard:My spirit labours! she exclaimed. This night!480The tomb! the altar! Ha! the vision strainsMy senses to oppression! Marked ye notThe trodden throne restored—the Saxon line[107]Of England's monarchs bursting through the gloom?Lady, I look on thee! In distant years,Even from the Northern throne which thou shalt share,[108]A warrior-monarch shall arise, whose arm,In concert with this country, now bowed low,Shall tear the eagle from a conqueror's grasp,Far greater than this Norman!490Spare, O God!My burning brain! Then, with a shriek, she fell,Insensible, upon the Saxon's grave!They bore her from the fane; and Godwin said,Peace, peace be with her, now and evermore!He, taking Marcus by the hand, Yet hereThou shalt behold, behold from day to day,This honoured grave! But where in the great worldShall be thy place of rest, poor Adela?O God, be ever with her! Marcus cried,500With her, and you, my brothers! Here we part,Never to meet again. Whate'er your fate,I shall remember with a brother's love,And pray for you; but all my spirit rests504In other worlds—in worlds, oh! not like this!Ye may return to this sad scene when IAm dust and ashes; ye may yet return,And visit this sad spot; perhaps when ageOr grief has brought such change of heart as nowI feel, then shall you look upon my grave,510And shed one tear for him whose latest prayerWill be: Oh, bless you! bless my sister, Lord!Then Adela, with lifted look composed:Father, it is performed,—the duty vowedWhen we returned to this devoted land,The last sad duty of a daughter's love!And now I go in peace—go to a worldOf sorrow, conscious that a father's voiceSpeaks to my soul, and that thine eye, O God!Whate'er the fortunes of our future days,520Is o'er us. Thou, direct our onward road!O'er the last Saxon's grave, old Osgood raisedHis hands and prayed:Father of heaven and earth,All is beneath Thine eye! 'Tis ours to bendIn silence. Children of misfortune, loved,Revered—children of him who raised these roofs,No home is found for you in this sad land;And none, perhaps, may know the spot, or shedA tear upon the earth where ye are laid!530So saying, on their heads he placed his hands,And blessed them all; but, after pause, rejoined:'Tis dangerous lingering here—the fire-eyed lynxWould lap your blood! Westward, beyond the Lea,There is a cell where ye may rest to-night.The portal opened; on the battlementsThe moonlight shone, silent and beautiful!Before them lay their path through the wide world—538The nightingales were singing as they passed;And, looking back upon the glimmering towers,They, led by Ailric, and with thoughts on heaven,Through the lone forest held their pensive way.
By the rolling of the drums,Hitherward King William comes!The night is struggling with the day—Hags of darkness, hence! away!
William is in the north; the avenging swordDescended like a whirlwind where he passed;Slaughter and Famine at his bidding wait,30Like lank, impatient bloodhounds, till he cries,Pursue! Again the Norman banner floatsTriumphant on the citadel of York,Where, circled with the blazonry of arms,Amid his barons, William holds his state.The boy preserved from death, young Malet, kneels,With folded hands; his father, mother kneel,Imploring clemency for Harold's sons;For Edmund most. Bareheaded Waltheof bends,39And yields the keys! A breathless courier comes:What tidings? O'er the seas the Danes are fled;Morcar and Edwin in Northumberland,Amidst its wildest mountains, seek to hideTheir broken hopes—their troops are all dispersed.Malcolm alone, and the boy Atheling,And the two sons of the dead Harold, waitThe winds to bear them to the North away.Bid forth a thousand spearmen, William cried:Now, by the resurrection, and the throneOf God, King Malcolm shall repent the hour50He ere drew sword in England! Hence! away!The west wind blows, the boat is on the beach,The clansmen all embarked, the pipe is heard,Whilst thoughtful Malcolm and young AthelingLinger the last upon the shore; and thereAre Harold's children, the gray-headed monk,Godwin, and Edmund, and poor Adela.Then Malcolm spoke: The lot is cast! oh, flyFrom this devoted land, and live with us,Amidst our lakes and mountains! Adela,60Atheling whispered, does thy heart say Yes?For in this world we ne'er may meet again.The brief hour calls—come, Adela, exclaimedMalcolm, and kindly took her hand. She lookedTo heaven, and fell upon her knees, then rose,And answered:Sire, when my brave father fell,We three were exiles on a distant shore;And never, or in solitude or courts,Was God forgotten—all is in his hand.70When those whom I had loved from infancyHere joined the din of arms, I came with them;With them I have partaken good and ill,73Have in the self-same mother's lap been laid,The same eye gazed on us with tenderness,And the same mother prayed prosperityMight still be ours through life! Alas! our lotHow different!Yet let them go with you,I argue not—the first time in our lives,80If it be so, we here shall separate;Whatever fate betide, I will not goTill I have knelt upon my father's grave!'Tis perilous to think, Atheling cried,Most perilous—how 'scape the Norman's eye?She turned, and with a solemn calmness said:If we should perish, at the hour of deathMy father will look down from heaven, and say,Come, my poor child! oh, come where I am blessed!My brothers, seek your safety. Here I stand90Resolved; and never will I leave these shoresTill I have knelt upon my father's grave!We never will forsake thee! Godwin cried.Let death betide, said Edmund, we will go,Yes! go with thee, or perish!As he spoke,The pilot gave the signal. Then farewell!King Malcolm cried, friends lately met, and nowTo part for ever! and he kissed the cheekOf Adela, and took brave Godwin's hand100And Edmund's, and then said, almost in tears,It is not now too late! yet o'er my graveSo might a duteous daughter weep! God speedBrave Malcolm to his father's land! they cried.The ships beyond the promontory's pointWere anchored, and the tide was ebbing fast.Then Ailric: Sire, not unforeseen by me107Was this sad day. Oh! King of Scotland, hear!I was a brother of that holy houseWhere Harold's bones are buried; from my vowsI was absolved, and followed—for I lovedHis children—followed them through every fate.My few gray hairs will soon descend in peace,When I shall be forgotten; but till then,My services, my last poor services,To them I have devoted, for the sakeOf him, their father, and my king, to whomAll in this world I owed! Protect them, Lord,And bless them, when the turf is on my head;And, in their old age, may they sometimes think120Of Ailric, cold and shrouded in his grave,When summer smiles! Sire, listen whilst I prayOne boon of thy compassion: not for me—I reck not whether vengeance wake or sleep—But for the safety of this innocent maidI speak. South of the Humber, in a cave,Concealed amidst the rocks and tangled brakes,I have deposited some needful weedsFor this sad hour; for well, indeed, I knew,If all should fail, this maiden's last resolve,130To kneel upon her father's grave, or die.For this I have provided; but the timeIs precious, and the sun is westering slow;The fierce eye of the lion may be turnedUpon this spot to-morrow! Adela,Now hear your friend, your father! The fleet hourIs passing, never to return: oh, seizeThe instant! Thou, King Malcolm, grant my prayer!If we embark, and leave the shores this night,The voice of fame will bruit it far and wide,140That Harold's children fled with thee, and sought141A refuge in thy kingdom. None will knowOur destination. In thy boat conveyed,We may be landed near the rocky cave;The boat again ply to thy ships, and theyPlough homeward the north seas, whilst we are leftTo fate. Again the pilot's voice was heard;And, o'er the sand-hills, an approaching fileOf Norman soldiers, with projected spears,Already seemed as rushing on their prey.150Then Ailric took the hand of Adela;She and her brothers, and young Atheling,And Scotland's king, are in one boat embarked.Meantime the sun sets red, and twilight shadesThe sinking hills. The solitary boatHas reached the adverse shore.Here, then, we part!King Malcolm said; and every voice replied,God speed brave Malcolm to his father's land!Ailric, the brothers, and their sister, left160The boat; they stood upon the moonlit beach,Still listening to the sounds, as they grew faint,Of the receding oars, and watching stillIf one white streak at distance, as they dipped,Were seen, till all was solitude around.Pensive, they sought a refuge for that nightIn the bleak ocean-cave. The morning dawns;The brothers have put off the plumes of war,Dropping one tear upon the sword. DisguisedIn garb to suit their fortunes, they appear170Like shipwrecked seamen of Armorica,By a Franciscan hermit through the landLed to St Alban's shrine, to offer vows,Vows to the God who heard them in that hourWhen all beside had perished in the storm.175Wrecked near his ocean-cave, an eremite(So went the tale of their disastrous fate)Sustained them, and now guides them through a landOf strangers. That fair boy was wont to singUpon the mast, when the still ship went slow180Along the seas, in sunshine; and that garbConceals the lovely, light-haired Adela.The cuckoo's note in the deep woods was heardWhen forth, they fared. At many a convent gateThey stood and prayed for shelter, and their paceHastened, if, high amid the clouds, they markedSome solitary castle lift its browGray in the distance—hastened, so to reach,Ere it grew dark, its hospitable towers.There the lithe minstrel sung his roundelay:190
Listen, lords and ladies bright!I can sing of many a knightWho fought in paynim lands afar;Of Bevis, or of Iscapar.I have tales of wandering maids,And fairy elves in haunted glades,Of phantom-troops that silent rideBy the moonlit forest's side.I have songs (fair maidens, hear!)To warn the lovelorn lady's ear.200The choice of all my treasures take,And grant us food for pity's sake!
When tired, at noon, by the white waterfall,In some romantic and secluded glen,They sat, and heard the blackbird overheadSinging, unseen, a song, such as they heardIn infancy.[105]So every vernal morn207Brought with it scents of flowers, or songs of birds,Mingled with many shapings of old things,And days gone by. Then up again, to scaleThe airy mountain, and behold the plainStretching below, and fading far away,How beautiful; yet still to feel a tearStarting, even when it shone most beautiful,To think, Here, in the country of our birth,No rest is ours!On, to our father's grave!So southward through the country they had passedNow many days, and casual shelter foundIn villages, or hermit's lonely cave,220Or castle, high embattled on the pointOf some steep mountain, or in convent walls;For most with pity heard his song, and markedThe countenance of the wayfaring boy;Or when the pale monk, with his folded handsUpon his breast, prayed, For the love of God,Pity the poor, give alms; and bade them speed!And now, in distant light, the pinnaclesOf a gray fane appeared, whilst on the woodsStill evening shed its parting light. Oh, say,230Say, villager, what towers are those that riseEastward beyond the alders?Know ye not,He answered, Waltham Abbey? Harold thereIs buried—he who in the fight was slainAt Hastings! To the cheek of AdelaA deadly paleness came. On—let us on!Faintly she cried, and held her brother's arm,And hid her face a moment with her hand.And now the massy portal's sculptured arch240Before them rose.Say, porter, Ailric cried,Poor mariners, wrecked on the northern shores,Ask charity. Does aged Osgood live?Tell him a poor Franciscan, wandering far,And wearied, for the love of God would askHis charity.Osgood came slowly forth;The light that touched the western turret fellOn his pale face. The pilgrim-father said:250I am your brother Ailric—look on me!And these are Harold's children!Whilst he spoke,Godwin, advancing, with emotion cried,We are his children! I am Godwin, thisIs Edmund, and, lo! poor and in disguise,Our sister! We would kneel upon his grave—Our father's!Come yet nearer, Osgood said,Yet nearer! and that instant Adela260Looked up, and wiping from her eyes a tear,Have you forgotten Adela?O God!The old man trembling cried, ye are indeedOur benefactor's children! Adela,Edmund, brave Godwin! welcome to these walls—Welcome, my old companion! and he fellUpon the neck of Ailric, and both wept.Then Osgood: Children of that honoured lordWho gave us all, go near and bless his grave.270One parting sunbeam yet upon the floorRested—it passed away, and darker gloomWas gathering in the aisles. Each footstep's soundWas more distinctly heard, for all beside274Was silent. Slow along the glimmering faneThey passed, like shadows risen from the tombs.The entrance-door was closed, lest aught intrudeUpon the sanctity of this sad hour.The inner choir they enter, part in shadeAnd part in light, for now the rising moon280Began to glance upon the shrines, and tombs,And pillars. Trembling through the windows high,One beam, a moment, on that cold gray stoneIs flung—the word "Infelix"[106]is scarce seen.Behold his gravestone! Osgood said. Each eyeWas turned. A while intent they gazed, then kneltBefore the altar, on the marble stone!No sound was heard through all the dim expanseOf the vast building, none but of the airThat came in dying echoes up the aisle,290Like whispers heard at the confessional.Thus Harold's children, hand in hand, knelt down—Upon their father's grave knelt down, and prayed:Have mercy on his soul—have mercy, Lord!They knelt a lengthened space, and bowed their heads,Some natural tears they shed, and crossed their breasts;Then rising slowly up, looked round, and sawA monk approaching near, unmarked before;And in the further distance the tall formAs of a female. He who wore the hood300And habit of a monk approached and spoke:Brothers! beloved sister! know ye notThese features?—and he raised his hood—BeholdMe—me, your brother Marcus! whom these weeds,Since last we met, have hidden from the world:Let me kneel with you here!When Adela407Beheld him, she exclaimed, Oh! do we meetHere, my lost brother, o'er a father's grave?You live, restored a moment in this world,To us as from the grave! And Godwin tookHis hand, and said, My brother, tell us all;How have you lived unknown? Oh! tell us all!When in that grave our father, he replied,Was laid, ye fled, and I in this sad landRemained to cope with fortune. To these wallsI came, when Ailric, from his vows absolved,With you was wandering. None my lineage knew,Or name, but I some time had won regardFrom the superior. Osgood knew me not,420For with Earl Edwin I had lived from youth.To our superior thus I knelt and prayed:Sir, I beseech you, for the love of God,And of our Lady Mary, and St John,You would receive me here to live and dieAmong you. What most moved my heart to takeThe vows was this, that here, from day to day,From year to year, within the walls he raised,I might behold my father's grave. This eveI sat in the confessional, unseen,430When you approached. I scarce restrained the tear,From many recollections, when I heardA tale of sorrow and of sin. Come near,Woman of woe!—and a wan woman stoodBefore them, tall and stately; her dark eyesShone, as the uncertain lamp cast a brief glare,And showed her neck, and raven hair, and lipsMoving. She spoke not, but advanced and knelt—She, too—on Harold's grave; then prayed aloud,O God, be merciful to him—and me!440Who art thou? Godwin cried.Ah! know ye notThe wretched Editha? No children's loveCould equal mine! I trod among the dead—Did I not, fathers?—trod among the deadFrom corse to corse, or saw men's dying eyesFixed upon mine, and heard such groans as yetRive, with remembrance, my torn heart: I foundHim who rests here, where then he lay in blood!When he was buried, I beheld the rites450At distance, and with broken heart retiredTo the wild woods; there I have lived unseenFrom that sad hour. Late when the tempest rocked,At midnight, a proud soldier shelter soughtIn my lone cell; 'twas when the storm was heardThrough the deep forest, and he too had kneltAt Harold's grave! Who was it? He! the king!Say, fathers, was it not the hand of GodThat led his footsteps there!—but has he learnedHumility? Oh! ask this bleeding land!460Last night a phantom came to me in dreams,And a voice said, Come, visit my cold grave!I came, by some mysterious impulse led;I heard the even song, and when the soundHad ceased, and all departed, save one monk,Who stood and gazed upon this grave alone,I prayed that he would hear me, at this hour,Confess my secret sins, for my full heartWas labouring. It was Harold's son who satIn the confessional, to me unknown;470But all is now revealed—and lo! I standBefore you!As she spoke, a thrilling awe473Came to each heart: loftier she seemed to standIn the dim moonlight; sorrowful, yet stern,Her aspect; and her breast was seen to beat;Her eyes were fixed, and shone with fearful light.She raised her right hand, and her dark hair fellUpon her neck, whilst all, scarce breathing, heard:My spirit labours! she exclaimed. This night!480The tomb! the altar! Ha! the vision strainsMy senses to oppression! Marked ye notThe trodden throne restored—the Saxon line[107]Of England's monarchs bursting through the gloom?Lady, I look on thee! In distant years,Even from the Northern throne which thou shalt share,[108]A warrior-monarch shall arise, whose arm,In concert with this country, now bowed low,Shall tear the eagle from a conqueror's grasp,Far greater than this Norman!490Spare, O God!My burning brain! Then, with a shriek, she fell,Insensible, upon the Saxon's grave!They bore her from the fane; and Godwin said,Peace, peace be with her, now and evermore!He, taking Marcus by the hand, Yet hereThou shalt behold, behold from day to day,This honoured grave! But where in the great worldShall be thy place of rest, poor Adela?O God, be ever with her! Marcus cried,500With her, and you, my brothers! Here we part,Never to meet again. Whate'er your fate,I shall remember with a brother's love,And pray for you; but all my spirit rests504In other worlds—in worlds, oh! not like this!Ye may return to this sad scene when IAm dust and ashes; ye may yet return,And visit this sad spot; perhaps when ageOr grief has brought such change of heart as nowI feel, then shall you look upon my grave,510And shed one tear for him whose latest prayerWill be: Oh, bless you! bless my sister, Lord!Then Adela, with lifted look composed:Father, it is performed,—the duty vowedWhen we returned to this devoted land,The last sad duty of a daughter's love!And now I go in peace—go to a worldOf sorrow, conscious that a father's voiceSpeaks to my soul, and that thine eye, O God!Whate'er the fortunes of our future days,520Is o'er us. Thou, direct our onward road!O'er the last Saxon's grave, old Osgood raisedHis hands and prayed:Father of heaven and earth,All is beneath Thine eye! 'Tis ours to bendIn silence. Children of misfortune, loved,Revered—children of him who raised these roofs,No home is found for you in this sad land;And none, perhaps, may know the spot, or shedA tear upon the earth where ye are laid!530So saying, on their heads he placed his hands,And blessed them all; but, after pause, rejoined:'Tis dangerous lingering here—the fire-eyed lynxWould lap your blood! Westward, beyond the Lea,There is a cell where ye may rest to-night.The portal opened; on the battlementsThe moonlight shone, silent and beautiful!Before them lay their path through the wide world—538The nightingales were singing as they passed;And, looking back upon the glimmering towers,They, led by Ailric, and with thoughts on heaven,Through the lone forest held their pensive way.
CONCLUSION.
William, on his imperial throne, at YorkIs seated, clad in steel, all but his face,From casque to spur. His brow yet wears a frown,And his eyes show the unextinguished fireOf steadfast vengeance, as his inmost heartYet labours, like the ocean after storm.His sword unsheathed appears, which none besidesCan wield; his sable beard, full and diffused,550Below the casque is spread; the lion rampsUpon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold.Behind him stand his barons, in dark file[109]Ranged, and each feature hid beneath the helms;Spears, with escutcheoned banners on their points,Above their heads are raised. Though all alikeAre cased in armour, know ye not that knightWho next, behind the king, seems more intentTo listen, and a loftier stature bears?'Tis bold Montgomerie; and he who kneels560Before the seat, his armour all with gulesChequered, and chequered his small banneret,Is Lord Fitzalain. William holds a scrollIn his right hand, and to Fitzalain speaks:All these, the forfeited domains and land565Of Edwin and of Morcar, traitor-lords,From Ely to the banks of Trent, I giveTo thee and thine!Fitzalian lowly knelt,And kissed his iron hand; then slowly rose,570Whilst all the barons shouted, Live the king!This is thy song, William the Conqueror,The tale of Harold's children, and the graveOf the last Saxon! The huge fortress frownsStill on the Thames, where William's banner waved,Though centuries year after year have passed,As the stream flows for ever at its feet;Harold, thy bones are scattered, and the tombThat held them, where the Lea's lorn wave delayed,[110]Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heard580The Eleeson pealing for thy soul,A fragment stands, and none will know the spotWhere those whom thou didst love in dust repose,Thy children! But the tale may not be vain,If haply it awake one duteous thoughtOf filial tenderness.That day of bloodIs passed, like a dark spectre: but it speaksEven to the kingdoms of the earth:Behold590The hand of God! From that dark day of blood,When Vengeance triumphed, and the curfew knolled,England, thy proud majestic policySlowly arose! Through centuries of shadeThe pile august of British libertyTowered, till behold it stand in clearer light596Illustrious. At its base, fell TyrannyGnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skiesUplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloft600Sounds o'er the subject seas, from east to west,From north to south, her trumpet—England, live!And rule, till waves and worlds shall be no more!
William, on his imperial throne, at YorkIs seated, clad in steel, all but his face,From casque to spur. His brow yet wears a frown,And his eyes show the unextinguished fireOf steadfast vengeance, as his inmost heartYet labours, like the ocean after storm.His sword unsheathed appears, which none besidesCan wield; his sable beard, full and diffused,550Below the casque is spread; the lion rampsUpon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold.Behind him stand his barons, in dark file[109]Ranged, and each feature hid beneath the helms;Spears, with escutcheoned banners on their points,Above their heads are raised. Though all alikeAre cased in armour, know ye not that knightWho next, behind the king, seems more intentTo listen, and a loftier stature bears?'Tis bold Montgomerie; and he who kneels560Before the seat, his armour all with gulesChequered, and chequered his small banneret,Is Lord Fitzalain. William holds a scrollIn his right hand, and to Fitzalain speaks:All these, the forfeited domains and land565Of Edwin and of Morcar, traitor-lords,From Ely to the banks of Trent, I giveTo thee and thine!Fitzalian lowly knelt,And kissed his iron hand; then slowly rose,570Whilst all the barons shouted, Live the king!
This is thy song, William the Conqueror,The tale of Harold's children, and the graveOf the last Saxon! The huge fortress frownsStill on the Thames, where William's banner waved,Though centuries year after year have passed,As the stream flows for ever at its feet;Harold, thy bones are scattered, and the tombThat held them, where the Lea's lorn wave delayed,[110]Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heard580The Eleeson pealing for thy soul,A fragment stands, and none will know the spotWhere those whom thou didst love in dust repose,Thy children! But the tale may not be vain,If haply it awake one duteous thoughtOf filial tenderness.That day of bloodIs passed, like a dark spectre: but it speaksEven to the kingdoms of the earth:Behold590The hand of God! From that dark day of blood,When Vengeance triumphed, and the curfew knolled,England, thy proud majestic policySlowly arose! Through centuries of shadeThe pile august of British libertyTowered, till behold it stand in clearer light596Illustrious. At its base, fell TyrannyGnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skiesUplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloft600Sounds o'er the subject seas, from east to west,From north to south, her trumpet—England, live!And rule, till waves and worlds shall be no more!
ILLUSTRATIONS FROM SPEED.
"This victory thus obtained, Duke William wholly ascribed unto God, and by way of a solemne supplication or procession, gave him the thankes; and pitching for that night his pavilion among the bodies of the dead, the next day returned to Hastings, there to consult upon his great and most prosperously begun enterprise, giving first commandement for the buriall of his slain souldiers."But Morcar and Edwin, the unfortunate Queenes' brethren, by night escaping the battaile, came unto London, where, with the rest of the peeres, they beganne to lay the foundation of some fresh hopes; posting thence their messengers to raise a new supply, and to comfort the English (who, through all the land, were stricken into a feareful astonishment with this unexpected newes) from a despairing feare, showing the chance of warre to be mutable, their number many and captaines sufficient to try another field. Alfred, Archbishop of Yorke, there present, and president of the assembly, stoutly and prudently gave his counsell forthwith to consecrate and crowne young Edgar Atheling (the true heire) for their king, to whom consented likewise both the sea-captaines and the Londoners. But the Earles of Yorkeshire and Cheshire, Edwin and Morcar (whom this fearefull state of their country could not disswade from disloyaltie and ambition), plotting secretly to get the crown themselves, hindred that wise and noble designe. In which, while the sorrowfull Queene, their sister, was conueyed to Westchester, where, without state or title of a Queene, she led a solitary and quiet life."The mother of the slaine King did not so well moderate her womanly passions as to receive either comfort or counsell of her friends: the dead body of her sonne shee greatly desired, and to that end sent to the Conquerour two sage brethren of his Abbey at Waltham, who had accompanied him in his unfortunate expedition. Their names (as I finde them recorded in an olde manuscript) were Osegod and Ailric, whose message to the Conquerour, not without abundance of teares and feare, is there set downe in the tenour as followeth:"'Noble Duke, and ere long to be a most great and mightie King, we thy most humble servants, destitute of all comfort (as we would we were also of life) are come to thee as sent from our brethren, whom this dead King hath placed in the monastery of Waltham, to attend the issue of this late dreadfull battaile (wherein God favouring thy quarrell, he is now taken away and dead, which was our greatest comforter, and by whose onely bountifull goodenesse we were relieved and maintained, whom hee had placed to serve God in that church). Wherefore wee most humbly request thee (now our dread lord) by that gracious favour which the Lord of lords hath showed unto thee, and for the reliefe of their soules, who in this quarrell have ended their dayes, that it may be lawfull for us by thy good leave safely to take and carry away with us the dead body of the King, the founder and builder of our church and monasterie; as also the bodies of such others as whom, for the reverence of him and for his sake, desired also to be buried with us, that the state of our church by their helpe strengthened, may be the stronger, and endure the firmer.' With whose so humble a request, and abundant teares, the victorious and worthy Duke moved, answered:"'Your King (said he) unmindfull of his faith, although he have for the present endured the worthy punishment of his fault, yet hath he not therefore deserved to want the honour of a sepulchre or to lie unburied: were it but that he died a King, howsoever he came by the kingdom, my purpose is, for the reverence of him, and for the health of them who, having left their wives and possessions, have here in my quarrel lost their lives, to build here a church and a monastery with an hundred monkes in it, to pray for them for ever, and in the same church to bury your King above the rest, with all honour unto so great a prince, and for his sake to endow the same with great revenewes.'"With which his courteous speech and promises, the two religious fathers, comforted and encouraged, again replied:"'Not so, noble Duke, but grant this thy servants' most humble request, that we may, for God, by thy leave, receive the dead body of our founder, and to bury it in the place which himself in his lifetime appointed, that wee, cheered with the presence of his body, may thereof take comfort, and that his tombe may be unto our successors a perpetual monument of his remembrance.'"The Duke, as he was of disposition gracious, and inclined to mercy, forthwith granted their desires, whereupon they drew out stores of gold to present him in way of gratulation, which he not only utterly refused, but also offered them plenty to supply whatsoever should be needfull for the pompe of his funerall, as also for their costs in travaile to and fro, giving strait commandments that none of his souldiers should persume to molest them in this businesse or in their returne. Then went they in haste to the quarry of the dead, but by no meanes could find the body of the King; for the countenances of all men greatly alter by death, but being maimed and imbrued with bloud, they are not known to be the men they were. As for his other regall ornaments which might have shewed him for their King, his dead corps was despoyled of them, either through the greedy desire of prey (as the manner of the field is) or to be the first bringer of such happy news, in hope of a princely reward, upon which purpose many times the body is both mangled and dismembred, and so was this King after his death by a base souldier gasht and hackt into the legge, whom Duke William rewarded for so unsouldier like a deed, cashiering him for ever out of his wages and warres. So that Harold, lying stript, wounded, bemangled, and goared in his bloud, could not be founde nor knowne till they sent for a woman named Editha (for her passing beautie surnamed Swan-shals, that is, Swan's-necke), whom hee entertained in secret love before he was King, who by some secret marks of his body, to her well knowne, found him out, and then put into a coffine, was by divers of the Norman nobilitie honourably brought unto the place afterward called Battle Bridge, where it was met by the nobles of England, and, so conveyed to Waltham, was there solemnly and with great lamentation of his mother, royally interred, with this rude epitaph,[111]well beseeming the time, though not the person."Goodwine, the eldest son of the King Harold, being growne to some ripenesse of years in y^e life of his father, after his death and overthrow by the Conquerour, took his brother with him and flew over into Ireland, from whence he returned and landed in Somersetshire, slew Edmoth (a baron sometimes of his fathers) that encountered him, and taking great preyes in Devonshire and Cornwell, departed till the next yeare; when, comeing again, he fought with Beorn and Earle of Cornwall, and after retired into Ireland, and thence went into Denmarke to King Swayn, his cosen-german, where he spent the rest of his life."Edmund, the second sonne to King Harold, went with his brother into Ireland, returned with him into England, and was at the slaughter and overthrow of Edmoth and his power in Somersetshire, at the spoyles committed in Cornwall and Devonshire, at the conflict with the Cornish Earle Beorn, passed, repassed with him in all his voyages, invasions, and warres, by sea and by land, in England and Ireland; and at the last departed with him from Ireland to Denmarke, tooke part with him of all pleasure and calamitie whatsoever, and attending and depending wholly upon him, lived and died with him in that country."Magnus, the third sonne of the King Harold, went with his brothers into Ireland, and returned with them the first time into England, and is never after that mentioned amongst them, nor elsewhere, unlesse (as some conjecture) he be that Magnus, who, seeing the mutability of humane affaires, became an anchoret, whose epitaph, pointing to his Danish originall, the learned Clarenciaux discovered in a little desolate church at Lewes, in Sussex, where, in the gaping chinks of an arch in the wall, in a rude and over worne character, certain old imperfect verses were found."A daughter, whose name is not known, left England with her brothers, and sought refuge with them in Denmark.Speed quotes Saxo Grammaticus, who says, "She afterwards married Waldemar, King of Russia." To this daughter I have given the name and character assigned to her in the poem.
"This victory thus obtained, Duke William wholly ascribed unto God, and by way of a solemne supplication or procession, gave him the thankes; and pitching for that night his pavilion among the bodies of the dead, the next day returned to Hastings, there to consult upon his great and most prosperously begun enterprise, giving first commandement for the buriall of his slain souldiers.
"But Morcar and Edwin, the unfortunate Queenes' brethren, by night escaping the battaile, came unto London, where, with the rest of the peeres, they beganne to lay the foundation of some fresh hopes; posting thence their messengers to raise a new supply, and to comfort the English (who, through all the land, were stricken into a feareful astonishment with this unexpected newes) from a despairing feare, showing the chance of warre to be mutable, their number many and captaines sufficient to try another field. Alfred, Archbishop of Yorke, there present, and president of the assembly, stoutly and prudently gave his counsell forthwith to consecrate and crowne young Edgar Atheling (the true heire) for their king, to whom consented likewise both the sea-captaines and the Londoners. But the Earles of Yorkeshire and Cheshire, Edwin and Morcar (whom this fearefull state of their country could not disswade from disloyaltie and ambition), plotting secretly to get the crown themselves, hindred that wise and noble designe. In which, while the sorrowfull Queene, their sister, was conueyed to Westchester, where, without state or title of a Queene, she led a solitary and quiet life.
"The mother of the slaine King did not so well moderate her womanly passions as to receive either comfort or counsell of her friends: the dead body of her sonne shee greatly desired, and to that end sent to the Conquerour two sage brethren of his Abbey at Waltham, who had accompanied him in his unfortunate expedition. Their names (as I finde them recorded in an olde manuscript) were Osegod and Ailric, whose message to the Conquerour, not without abundance of teares and feare, is there set downe in the tenour as followeth:
"'Noble Duke, and ere long to be a most great and mightie King, we thy most humble servants, destitute of all comfort (as we would we were also of life) are come to thee as sent from our brethren, whom this dead King hath placed in the monastery of Waltham, to attend the issue of this late dreadfull battaile (wherein God favouring thy quarrell, he is now taken away and dead, which was our greatest comforter, and by whose onely bountifull goodenesse we were relieved and maintained, whom hee had placed to serve God in that church). Wherefore wee most humbly request thee (now our dread lord) by that gracious favour which the Lord of lords hath showed unto thee, and for the reliefe of their soules, who in this quarrell have ended their dayes, that it may be lawfull for us by thy good leave safely to take and carry away with us the dead body of the King, the founder and builder of our church and monasterie; as also the bodies of such others as whom, for the reverence of him and for his sake, desired also to be buried with us, that the state of our church by their helpe strengthened, may be the stronger, and endure the firmer.' With whose so humble a request, and abundant teares, the victorious and worthy Duke moved, answered:
"'Your King (said he) unmindfull of his faith, although he have for the present endured the worthy punishment of his fault, yet hath he not therefore deserved to want the honour of a sepulchre or to lie unburied: were it but that he died a King, howsoever he came by the kingdom, my purpose is, for the reverence of him, and for the health of them who, having left their wives and possessions, have here in my quarrel lost their lives, to build here a church and a monastery with an hundred monkes in it, to pray for them for ever, and in the same church to bury your King above the rest, with all honour unto so great a prince, and for his sake to endow the same with great revenewes.'
"With which his courteous speech and promises, the two religious fathers, comforted and encouraged, again replied:
"'Not so, noble Duke, but grant this thy servants' most humble request, that we may, for God, by thy leave, receive the dead body of our founder, and to bury it in the place which himself in his lifetime appointed, that wee, cheered with the presence of his body, may thereof take comfort, and that his tombe may be unto our successors a perpetual monument of his remembrance.'
"The Duke, as he was of disposition gracious, and inclined to mercy, forthwith granted their desires, whereupon they drew out stores of gold to present him in way of gratulation, which he not only utterly refused, but also offered them plenty to supply whatsoever should be needfull for the pompe of his funerall, as also for their costs in travaile to and fro, giving strait commandments that none of his souldiers should persume to molest them in this businesse or in their returne. Then went they in haste to the quarry of the dead, but by no meanes could find the body of the King; for the countenances of all men greatly alter by death, but being maimed and imbrued with bloud, they are not known to be the men they were. As for his other regall ornaments which might have shewed him for their King, his dead corps was despoyled of them, either through the greedy desire of prey (as the manner of the field is) or to be the first bringer of such happy news, in hope of a princely reward, upon which purpose many times the body is both mangled and dismembred, and so was this King after his death by a base souldier gasht and hackt into the legge, whom Duke William rewarded for so unsouldier like a deed, cashiering him for ever out of his wages and warres. So that Harold, lying stript, wounded, bemangled, and goared in his bloud, could not be founde nor knowne till they sent for a woman named Editha (for her passing beautie surnamed Swan-shals, that is, Swan's-necke), whom hee entertained in secret love before he was King, who by some secret marks of his body, to her well knowne, found him out, and then put into a coffine, was by divers of the Norman nobilitie honourably brought unto the place afterward called Battle Bridge, where it was met by the nobles of England, and, so conveyed to Waltham, was there solemnly and with great lamentation of his mother, royally interred, with this rude epitaph,[111]well beseeming the time, though not the person.
"Goodwine, the eldest son of the King Harold, being growne to some ripenesse of years in y^e life of his father, after his death and overthrow by the Conquerour, took his brother with him and flew over into Ireland, from whence he returned and landed in Somersetshire, slew Edmoth (a baron sometimes of his fathers) that encountered him, and taking great preyes in Devonshire and Cornwell, departed till the next yeare; when, comeing again, he fought with Beorn and Earle of Cornwall, and after retired into Ireland, and thence went into Denmarke to King Swayn, his cosen-german, where he spent the rest of his life.
"Edmund, the second sonne to King Harold, went with his brother into Ireland, returned with him into England, and was at the slaughter and overthrow of Edmoth and his power in Somersetshire, at the spoyles committed in Cornwall and Devonshire, at the conflict with the Cornish Earle Beorn, passed, repassed with him in all his voyages, invasions, and warres, by sea and by land, in England and Ireland; and at the last departed with him from Ireland to Denmarke, tooke part with him of all pleasure and calamitie whatsoever, and attending and depending wholly upon him, lived and died with him in that country.
"Magnus, the third sonne of the King Harold, went with his brothers into Ireland, and returned with them the first time into England, and is never after that mentioned amongst them, nor elsewhere, unlesse (as some conjecture) he be that Magnus, who, seeing the mutability of humane affaires, became an anchoret, whose epitaph, pointing to his Danish originall, the learned Clarenciaux discovered in a little desolate church at Lewes, in Sussex, where, in the gaping chinks of an arch in the wall, in a rude and over worne character, certain old imperfect verses were found."
A daughter, whose name is not known, left England with her brothers, and sought refuge with them in Denmark.
Speed quotes Saxo Grammaticus, who says, "She afterwards married Waldemar, King of Russia." To this daughter I have given the name and character assigned to her in the poem.
FOOTNOTES:[90]Part of the abbey remains; but there is no trace of the tomb, which was of gray marble. That portion of the edifice is entirely destroyed.[91]The river Lea, near which the abbey called Waltham Holy Cross was founded.[92]There is a quaint epitaph in Speed, describing him as having been buried in a convent at Lewes. I have so far adhered to historical tradition, as to represent him under the character and in the habit of a religious order. The abbey founded by his father seemed more appropriate than a convent or cell at Lewes. The wife of Harold is not introduced at the funeral, as she had fled to a convent.[93]Altered from the real name for the sake of euphony. I have also taken the liberty of representing the "religious" at Waltham Abbey as monks, although they were in fact canons.[94]Spurnhead, at the entrance to the Humber.[95]Fratres Helenæ.[96]This town and castle have vanished, but the name has often been recorded in English history.[97]A comet appeared at the time of Harold's coronation.[98]Hardrada of Norway had invaded England a short time before the arrival of William. Harold defeated him with immense slaughter in the north, and was called from thence to a more desperate and fatal struggle.[99]One family only was saved in the massacre of the Normans at York.[100]Harold's banner had the device of an armed knight.[101]Robert of Normandy.[102]William Rufus, called the Red King.[103]It is a singular fact, that the name of Editha Pulcherrima occurs in Domesday (see Turner).[104]This temple Camden places at Delgovitia.[105]William took the field in spring[106]In some accounts it is said the only inscription on the tomb was, "Infelix Harold."[107]The Saxon line was restored through the sister of Atheling.[108]A daughter of Harold married Waldimir of Russia.[109]The picture is taken from an original, preserved in Drake, in which William and his barons are thus represented. He is shown in the act of presenting his nephew Alain with the forfeited lands of Earl Edwin.[110]Waltham is, literally, the Ham in the Wold.[111]For this epitaph, see Speed.
[90]Part of the abbey remains; but there is no trace of the tomb, which was of gray marble. That portion of the edifice is entirely destroyed.
[90]Part of the abbey remains; but there is no trace of the tomb, which was of gray marble. That portion of the edifice is entirely destroyed.
[91]The river Lea, near which the abbey called Waltham Holy Cross was founded.
[91]The river Lea, near which the abbey called Waltham Holy Cross was founded.
[92]There is a quaint epitaph in Speed, describing him as having been buried in a convent at Lewes. I have so far adhered to historical tradition, as to represent him under the character and in the habit of a religious order. The abbey founded by his father seemed more appropriate than a convent or cell at Lewes. The wife of Harold is not introduced at the funeral, as she had fled to a convent.
[92]There is a quaint epitaph in Speed, describing him as having been buried in a convent at Lewes. I have so far adhered to historical tradition, as to represent him under the character and in the habit of a religious order. The abbey founded by his father seemed more appropriate than a convent or cell at Lewes. The wife of Harold is not introduced at the funeral, as she had fled to a convent.
[93]Altered from the real name for the sake of euphony. I have also taken the liberty of representing the "religious" at Waltham Abbey as monks, although they were in fact canons.
[93]Altered from the real name for the sake of euphony. I have also taken the liberty of representing the "religious" at Waltham Abbey as monks, although they were in fact canons.
[94]Spurnhead, at the entrance to the Humber.
[94]Spurnhead, at the entrance to the Humber.
[95]Fratres Helenæ.
[95]Fratres Helenæ.
[96]This town and castle have vanished, but the name has often been recorded in English history.
[96]This town and castle have vanished, but the name has often been recorded in English history.
[97]A comet appeared at the time of Harold's coronation.
[97]A comet appeared at the time of Harold's coronation.
[98]Hardrada of Norway had invaded England a short time before the arrival of William. Harold defeated him with immense slaughter in the north, and was called from thence to a more desperate and fatal struggle.
[98]Hardrada of Norway had invaded England a short time before the arrival of William. Harold defeated him with immense slaughter in the north, and was called from thence to a more desperate and fatal struggle.
[99]One family only was saved in the massacre of the Normans at York.
[99]One family only was saved in the massacre of the Normans at York.
[100]Harold's banner had the device of an armed knight.
[100]Harold's banner had the device of an armed knight.
[101]Robert of Normandy.
[101]Robert of Normandy.
[102]William Rufus, called the Red King.
[102]William Rufus, called the Red King.
[103]It is a singular fact, that the name of Editha Pulcherrima occurs in Domesday (see Turner).
[103]It is a singular fact, that the name of Editha Pulcherrima occurs in Domesday (see Turner).
[104]This temple Camden places at Delgovitia.
[104]This temple Camden places at Delgovitia.
[105]William took the field in spring
[105]William took the field in spring
[106]In some accounts it is said the only inscription on the tomb was, "Infelix Harold."
[106]In some accounts it is said the only inscription on the tomb was, "Infelix Harold."
[107]The Saxon line was restored through the sister of Atheling.
[107]The Saxon line was restored through the sister of Atheling.
[108]A daughter of Harold married Waldimir of Russia.
[108]A daughter of Harold married Waldimir of Russia.
[109]The picture is taken from an original, preserved in Drake, in which William and his barons are thus represented. He is shown in the act of presenting his nephew Alain with the forfeited lands of Earl Edwin.
[109]The picture is taken from an original, preserved in Drake, in which William and his barons are thus represented. He is shown in the act of presenting his nephew Alain with the forfeited lands of Earl Edwin.
[110]Waltham is, literally, the Ham in the Wold.
[110]Waltham is, literally, the Ham in the Wold.
[111]For this epitaph, see Speed.
[111]For this epitaph, see Speed.
ADVERTISEMENT.
This poem was first published under the name of "One of the Living Poets of Great Britain." I have thought it best to revise and publish it in my own name, and as it is the last written by me, and the last I may ever live to write, I have added, from volumes long out of print, some selected verses of my earliest days of song.[112]Since these were written, I have lived to hear the sounds of other harps, whose masters have struck far more sublime chords, and died. I have lived to see among them females[113]of the highest poetical rank, and many illustrious masters of the lyre, whose names I need not specify, crowned with younger and more verdant laurels, which they yet gracefully wear. Some who now rank high in the poet's art have acknowledged that their feelings were first excited by these youthful strains, which I have now, with melancholy feelings, revised for the last time.It is a consolation that, from youth to age, I have found no line I wished to blot, or departed a moment from the severer taste which I imbibed from the simplest and purest models of classical composition.Time—Four days.Characters.—St John—Mysterious Stranger—Præfect of the Roman Guard—Robber of Mount Carmel, converted—Grecian Girl and Dying Libertine—Elders of Ephesus—Visions.
This poem was first published under the name of "One of the Living Poets of Great Britain." I have thought it best to revise and publish it in my own name, and as it is the last written by me, and the last I may ever live to write, I have added, from volumes long out of print, some selected verses of my earliest days of song.[112]
Since these were written, I have lived to hear the sounds of other harps, whose masters have struck far more sublime chords, and died. I have lived to see among them females[113]of the highest poetical rank, and many illustrious masters of the lyre, whose names I need not specify, crowned with younger and more verdant laurels, which they yet gracefully wear. Some who now rank high in the poet's art have acknowledged that their feelings were first excited by these youthful strains, which I have now, with melancholy feelings, revised for the last time.
It is a consolation that, from youth to age, I have found no line I wished to blot, or departed a moment from the severer taste which I imbibed from the simplest and purest models of classical composition.
Time—Four days.
Characters.—St John—Mysterious Stranger—Præfect of the Roman Guard—Robber of Mount Carmel, converted—Grecian Girl and Dying Libertine—Elders of Ephesus—Visions.
War, and the noise of battle, and the hum Of armies, by their watch-fires, in the night, And charging squadrons, all in harness bright, The sword, the shield, the trumpet, and the drum— Themes such as these, too oft, in lofty song Have been resounded, while the poet strung His high heroic lyre, and louder sung Of chariots flashing through the armed throng:— But other sights and other sounds engage, Fitlier, the thoughts of calm-declining age, More worthy of the Christian and the sage; Who, when deep clouds his country have o'ercast, And sadder comes the moaning of the blast, To God would consecrate a parting lay Of holier homage, ere he pass away.
War, and the noise of battle, and the hum Of armies, by their watch-fires, in the night, And charging squadrons, all in harness bright, The sword, the shield, the trumpet, and the drum— Themes such as these, too oft, in lofty song Have been resounded, while the poet strung His high heroic lyre, and louder sung Of chariots flashing through the armed throng:— But other sights and other sounds engage, Fitlier, the thoughts of calm-declining age, More worthy of the Christian and the sage; Who, when deep clouds his country have o'ercast, And sadder comes the moaning of the blast, To God would consecrate a parting lay Of holier homage, ere he pass away.
Cave in Patmos—Apparition—Mysterious Visitant—Day, Night, and Morning.
Cave in Patmos—Apparition—Mysterious Visitant—Day, Night, and Morning.