The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

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

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

The moon was high, when, 'mid the wildest woldsOf Holderness, where erst that structure vast,An idol-temple,104 in old heathen times,Frowned with gigantic shadow to the moon,That oft had heard the dark song and the groansOf sacrifice,There the wan sisters met;They circled the rude stone, and called the dead,And sung by turns their more terrific song:FIRST HAGI looked in the seer's prophetic glass,And saw the deeds that should come to pass;From Carlisle-Wall to Flamborough Head,The reeking soil was heaped with dead.SECOND HAGThe 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 HAGI saw a famished mother lie,Her lips were livid, and glazed her eye;The tempest was rising, and sang in the south,And I snatched the blade of grass from her mouth.FOURTH HAGBy 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,Like 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,And yields the keys! A breathless courier comes:What tidings? O'er the seas the Danes are fled;Morcar and Edwin in Northumberland,Amidst its wildest mountains, seek to 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 hourHe 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,Atheling 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.When those whom I had loved from infancyHere joined the din of arms, I came with them;With them I have partaken good and ill,Have in the self-same mother's lap been laid,The same eye gazed on us with tenderness,And the same mother prayed 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,If 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 standResolved; 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 handAnd 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 meWas 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 thinkOf 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,To 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,That Harold's children fled with thee, and soughtA 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.Then Ailric took the hand of Adela;She and her brothers, and young Atheling,And Scotland's king, are in one boat embarked.Meantime the sun sets red, and twilight 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, leftThe 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 appearLike 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.Wrecked 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 slowAlong 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: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.The choice of all my treasures take,And grant us food for pity's sake!When tired, at noon, by the white waterfall,In some romantic and secluded glen,They sat, and heard the blackbird overheadSinging, unseen, a song, such as they heardIn infancy.105 So every vernal mornBrought 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,Or 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,Say, 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 archBefore 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:I am your brother Ailric – look on me!And these are Harold's children!Whilst he spoke,Godwin, advancing, with emotion cried,We are his children! I am Godwin, 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 AdelaLooked 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.One 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 besideWas 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 moonBegan 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,Like whispers heard at the confessional.Thus Harold's children, hand in hand, knelt down —Upon their father's grave knelt down, and prayed:Have mercy on his soul – have mercy, Lord!They knelt a lengthened space, and bowed their heads,Some natural tears they shed, and crossed their breasts;Then rising slowly up, looked round, and sawA monk approaching near, unmarked before;And in the further distance the tall formAs of a female. He who wore the hoodAnd 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 AdelaBeheld 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,For with Earl Edwin I had lived from youth.To our superior thus I knelt and prayed:Sir, I beseech you, for the love of God,And of our Lady Mary, and St John,You would receive me here to live and 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,When 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!Who 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 ritesAt 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!Last night a phantom came to me in dreams,And a voice said, Come, visit my cold grave!I came, by some mysterious impulse led;I heard the even song, and when the 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;But all is now revealed – and lo! I standBefore you!As she spoke, a thrilling aweCame 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!The tomb! the altar! Ha! the vision strainsMy senses to oppression! Marked ye notThe trodden throne restored – the Saxon line107Of England's monarchs bursting through the gloom?Lady, I look on thee! In distant years,Even from the Northern throne which thou shalt share,108A warrior-monarch shall arise, whose arm,In concert with this country, now bowed low,Shall tear the eagle from a conqueror's grasp,Far greater than this Norman!Spare, O God!My burning brain! Then, with a shriek, she fell,Insensible, upon the Saxon's grave!They bore her from the fane; and Godwin said,Peace, peace be with her, now and evermore!He, taking Marcus by the hand, Yet 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,With her, and you, my brothers! Here we part,Never to meet again. Whate'er your fate,I shall remember with a brother's love,And pray for you; but all my spirit restsIn 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,And 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,Is 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!So 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 —The nightingales were singing as they passed;And, looking back upon the glimmering towers,They, led by Ailric, and with thoughts on heaven,Through the lone forest held their pensive way.CONCLUSIONWilliam, 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,Below the casque is spread; the lion rampsUpon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold.Behind him stand his barons, in dark file109Ranged, 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 kneelsBefore 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 landOf 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,Whilst 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,110Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heardThe 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:BeholdThe 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 lightIllustrious. At its base, fell TyrannyGnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skiesUplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloftSounds 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.