The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

PART FOURTH

WALK ABROAD – VIEWS AROUND, FROM THE SEVERN TO BRISTOL – WRINGTON – "AULD ROBIN GRAY."The shower is past – the heath-bell, at our feet,Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dewHangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tearUpon the eyelids of a village child!Mark! where a light upon those far-off wavesGleams, while the passing shower above our headSheds its last silent drops, amid the huesOf the fast-fading rainbow, – such is life!Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.No object on the wider sea-line meetsThe straining vision, but one distant ship,Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.She seems the ship – the very ship I sawIn infancy, and in that very place,Whilst I, and all around me, have grown oldSince she was first descried; and there she sits,A solitary thing of the wide main —As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on: —To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!Where is she bound? We know not; and no voiceWill tell us where. Perhaps she beats her waySlow up the channel, after many years,Returning from some distant clime, or lands,Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyesCount every nearer surge that heaves around!How many anxious hearts this moment beatWith thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,Intensely fixed upon these very hills,Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on —On – on – into the world of the vast sea,There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,Now fading into mist! So let her speed,And we will pray she may return in joy,When every storm is past! Such is this sea,That shows one wandering ship! How different smileThe sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine —Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth —Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shadeUpon the light blue wave, as when of yore,Beneath their arch, King Canute sat,74 and chidThe tide, that came regardless to his feet,A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlikeYon solitary sea, the summer shines,There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,And sails, at distance, beautifully swellTo the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look! —Look! what a fairy lady is that yachtThat turns the wooded point, and silentlyStreams up the sylvan Itchin; silently —And yet as if she said, as she went on,Who does not gaze at me!Yon winding sandsWere solitary once, as the wide sea.Such I remember them! No sound was heard,Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,Or of the surge that broke along the shore,Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming hereI could have no companion fit for him —So whispered youthful vanity – for himWhom Oxford75 had distinguished, – can my heartForget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,I wandered forth alone! The first ray shoneOn the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,I listened to the tide's advancing roar,When, for the old and booted fisherman,Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold hazeOf sunrise, I beheld – or was it notA momentary vision? – a fair form —A female, following, with light, airy step,The wave as it retreated, and againTripping before it, till it touched her foot,As if in play; and she stood beautiful,Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.I looked that she would vanish! She had left,Like me, just left the abode of discipline,And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,When the pale light first glanced along the wave,To play with the wild ocean, like a child;And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,Ye votaries of German sentiment!) —Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,And left the scene to solitude. Once moreWe met, and then we parted, in this worldTo meet no more; and that fair form, that shoneThe vision of a moment, on the sands,Was never seen again! Now it has passedWhere all things are forgotten; but it shoneTo me a sparkle of the morning sun,That trembled on the light wave yesterday,And perished there for ever!Look around!Above the winding reach of Severn stands,With massy fragments of forsaken towers,Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!Through the lone ivied arch, was it the windCame fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,And deem it some old castle of romance;And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,Above the wave, fancy it was the formOf a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieksVanishing! Hush! there is no sound – no soundBut of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!There is no bleeding apparition there —No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!Surrounded by the works of silent art,And far, far more endearing, by a groupOf breathing children, their possessor lives;76And ill should I deserve the name of bard —Of courtly bard, if I could touch this themeWithout a prayer – an earnest, heartfelt prayer,When one, whose smile I never saw but once,Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms —Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock —A living and a lovely bride!77How proud,Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,Trailing in columns to the midday sun,Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,And the great stir of commerce, and the noiseOf passing and repassing wains, and cars,And sledges, grating in their underpath,And trade's deep murmur, and a street of mastsAnd pennants from all nations of the earth,Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,Hill above hill; and every road belowGloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated highOn their rough pads, in dingy dust serene: —How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,Stands Redcliff's solemn fane, – how proudly girtWith villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea —Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,That ancient city sits!From out those trees,Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!How many woody glens and nooks of shade,With transient sunshine, fill the interval,As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,Dark, or with fits of desultory lightFlung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-CoombeAllures the lingering traveller to wind,Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriouslyThe wide scene lies in light! how gloriouslySun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!There the dark yew starts from the limestone rockInto faint sunshine; there the ivy hangsFrom the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,Seem as admonishing the nether woodsOf Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneathThe fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edgeOne peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.And who lives in that far-secluded cot?Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edgeShe lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the soundOf human kind, forsaken as the scene!Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy ringsMarking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,By moonlight. But what sullen demon piledThe rocks, that stern in desolation frown,Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,78Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kiteMore dismal makes its utter dreariness!But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smilesThe seat of cultivated Addington:79And there, that beautiful but solemn churchPresides o'er the still scene, where one old friend80Lives social, while the shortening day unfeltSteals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends —With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.Is that a magic garden on the edgeOf Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glensWith porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,That seems to say – England, with all thy crimes,And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,England, thou only art the poor man's home!And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen,Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peepsThe Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rockStart from the verdant turf, among the flowers.And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not thinkOf Langhorne, in that hermitage of song —Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too!81He, in retirement's literary bower,Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayerFor her, associate of his early fame,Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,82Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,Smiling at time!But, hark! there comes a song,Of Scotland's lakes and hills – Auld Robin Gray!Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed wordsMore sadly soothing; but the melody,83Like some sweet melody of olden times,A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once —Sung by a maiden84 of the south, whose look(Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life,Are sweeter than her song – no minstrel gray,Like Donald and "the Lady of the Lake,"But would lay down his harp, and when the songWas ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile,To thank that maiden, with a strain like this: —Oh! when I hear thee sing of "Jamie far away,"Of "father and of mother," and of "Auld Robin Gray,"I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear."I look in thy face," for my heart it is not cold,85Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old;Those tones I shall remember as long as I live,And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.The tear it is for summers that so blithesome have been,For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,Recalls the music of "Lang Syne," to which my heart has beat.

PART FIFTH

LANG SYNE – VISION OF THE DELUGE – CONCLUSIONThe music of "Lang Syne!" Oh! long agoIt died away – died, and was heard no more!And where those hills that skirt the level vale,On to the left, the prospect intercept,I would not, could not look, were they removed;I would not, could not look, lest I should seeThe sunshine on that spot of all the world,Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazedLong since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,Farewell – farewell, for ever!How sincere,How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,And I look back, and almost seem to hearThe music of the days when we were young,Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere —How fervent, and how tender, and how pure,Was my fond heart's first love!The summer eveShone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,Borne from those scenes for ever, while with songThe sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.So passed the days of youth, which ne'er return,Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,Save such as poets dream of – love and hope.At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwinedLay withering, for the dream had been too sweetFor human life; yet never, though his love,All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,To drown even the remembrance that he lived —Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,Died on his desultory lyre.No more!Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,That long has passed away! Uplift the eyesTo Him who sits above the water flood, —To Him who was, and is, and is to come!Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,And marking here the record of earth's doom,Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound —The sound of the great flood, the peopled earthCovering and surging in its solitude!Let us forget the passing hour, the stirOf this tumultuous scene of human things,And bid imagination lift the veilSpread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!The vision of the deluge! Hark – a trump!It was the trump of the Archangel! SternHe stands, whilst the awakening thunder rollsBeneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he standsUpon Imaus' height!No voice is heardOf revelry or blasphemy so high!He sounds again his trumpet; and the cloudsCome deepening o'er the world!Why art thou pale?A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,As if the shadow of the Almighty passedO'er the abodes of man, and hushed at onceThe song, the shout, the cries of violence,The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curseOf blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,And mocks the deeper thunder!Hark! a voice —Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earthAnswers, from north to south, from east to west —Perish! The fountains of the mighty deepAre broken up; the rushing rains descend,Like night – deep night; while, momentary seen,Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind —Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared —Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!Now, dismally, through all her caverns, HellSends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,And then a loud voice answers – Victory!Victory to the rider and his horse!Victory to the rider and his horse!Ride on: – the ark, majestic and aloneOn the wide waste of the careering deep,Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!The ark, from its terrific voyage, restsOn Ararat. The raven is sent forth, —Send out the dove, and as her wings far offShine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song: —Go, beautiful and gentle dove;But whither wilt thou go?For though the clouds ride high above,How sad and waste is all below!The wife of Shem, a moment to her breastHeld the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a nightWhen she was listening to the hollow wind,She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear;Or when it murmured in her hand, forgotThe long, loud tumult of the storm without.She kisses it, and at her father's word,Bids it go forth.The dove flies on! In lonely flightShe flies from dawn till dark;And now, amid the gloom of night,Comes weary to the ark.Oh! let me in, she seems to say,For long and lone hath been my way!Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest,And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast!So the bird flew to her who cherished it.She sent it forth again out of the ark; —Again it came at evening fall, and, lo!An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill.And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,And kissed its wings again, and smilinglyDropped on its neck one silent tear for joy.She sent it forth once more; and watched its flight,Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost,Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell: —Go, beautiful and gentle dove,And greet the morning ray;For, lo! the sun shines bright above,And night and storm have passed away.No longer, drooping, here confined,In this cold prison dwell;Go, free to sunshine and to wind,Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!Oh! beautiful and gentle dove,Thy welcome sad will be,When thou shalt hear no voice of love,In murmurs from the leafy tree:Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,From this cold prison's cell;Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well!86And never more she saw it; for the earthWas dry, and now, upon the mountain's van,Again the great Archangel stands; the lightOf the moist rainbow glitters on his hair —He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose archSpans the whole heaven; and whilst, far off, in light,The ascending dove is for a moment seen,The last rain falls – falls, gently and unheard.Amid the silent sunshine! Oh! look up! —Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light,Behold a cross! – and round about the cross,Lo! angels and archangels jubilant,Till the ascending pomp in light is lost,Lift their acclaiming voice – Glory to thee,Glory, and praise, and honour be to thee,Lord God of hosts; we laud and magnifyThy glorious name, praising Thee evermore,For the great dragon is cast down, and hellVanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ!Hark! the clock strikes! The shadowy scene dissolves,And all the visionary pomp is past!I only see a few sheep on the edgeOf this aërial ridge, and Banwell Tower,Gray in the morning sunshine, at our feet.Farewell to Banwell Cave, and Banwell Hill,And Banwell Church;87 and farewell to the shoresWhere, when a child, I wandered; and farewell,Harp of my youth! Above this mountain-caveI leave thee, murmuring to the fitful breezeThat wanders from that sea, whose sound I heardSo many years ago.Yet, whilst the lightSteals from the clouds, to rest upon that tower,I turn a parting look, and lift to HeavenA parting prayer, that our own Zion, thus, —With sober splendour, yet not gorgeous,Her mitred brow tempered with lenityAnd apostolic mildness – in her mienNo dark defeature, beautiful as mild,And gentle as the smile of charity, —Thus on the Rock of Ages may upliftHer brow majestic, pointing to the spiresThat grace her village glens, or solemn fanesIn cities, calm above the stir and smoke,And listening to deep harmonies that swellFrom all her temples!So may she adorn —Her robe as graceful, as her creed is pure —This happy land, till time shall be no more!And whilst her gray cathedrals rise in air,Solemn, august, and beautiful, and touchedBy time, to show a grace, but no decay,Like that fair pile, which, from hoar Mendip's brow,The traveller beholds, crowning the valeOf Avalon, with all its towers in light;So, England, may thy gray cathedrals liftTheir front in heaven's pure light, and ever boastSuch prelate-lords – bland, but yet dignified —Pious, paternal, and beloved, as heWho prompted, and forgives, this Severn song!And thou, O Lord and Saviour! on whose rockThat Church is founded, though the storm withoutMay howl around its battlements, preserveIts spirit, and still pour into the heartsOf all, who there confess thy holy name,Peace, that, through evil or through good report,They may hold on their blameless way!For me,Though disappointment, like a morning cloud,Hung on my early hopes, that cloud is passed, —Is passed, but not forgotten, – and the lightIs calm, not cold, which rests upon the scene,Soon to be ended. I may wake no moreThe melody of song on earth; but Thee,Father of Heaven, and Saviour, at this hour,Father and Lord, I thank Thee that no songOf mine, from youth to age, has left a stainI would blot out; and grateful for the goodThy providence, through many years, has lent,Humbly I wait the close, till Thy high willDismiss me, – blessed if, when that hour shall come,My life may plead, far better than my song.

THE GRAVE OF THE LAST SAXON; OR, THE LEGEND OF THE CURFEW

INTRODUCTION

The circumstance of the late critical controversy with Lord Byron having recalled my attention to a poem, sketched some years ago, on a subject of national history, I have been induced to revise and correct, and now venture to offer it to the public.

The subject, though taken from an early period of our history, is, so far as relates to the grave of Harold, purely imaginary, as are all the characters, except those of the Conqueror, and of Edgar Atheling. History, I think, justifies me in representing William as acting constantly under strong religious impressions. A few circumstances in his life will clearly show this. When Harold was with him in Normandy, he took an oath of him on two altars, within which were concealed miraculous relics.88 His banner was sent from Rome, consecrated by the Pope, for the especial purpose of the invasion of England. Without adverting to the night spent in prayer before the battle of Hastings, was not this impression more decidedly shown when he pitched his tent among the dead on that night, and vowed to build an abbey on the spot? The event of the battle was so much against all human probability, that his undertaking it, at the place and time, can only be reconciled by supposing that he acted under some extraordinary impression.

When the battle was gained, he knew not on what course to determine: instead of marching to London, he retired towards Dover. When he was met by the Kentish men, with green boughs, the quaint historian says, "He was daunted." These and many other incidental circumstances may occur to the reader.

In representing him, therefore, as under the control of superstitious impressions, I trust I have not transgressed, at least, poetical verisimilitude. An earthquake actually happened about the period at which the poem commences, followed by storms and inundations. Of these facts I have availed myself.

I fear the poem will be thought less interesting, from having nothing of love in it, except, in accordance with the received ideas of the gentleness of Atheling's character, I have made him not insensible to one of my imaginary females; and have, therefore, to mark his character, made him advert to the pastoral scenes of Scotland, where he had been a resident. There is a similarity between my "Monk," and "The Missionary," but their offices and the scenes are entirely different, and some degree of resemblance was unavoidable in characters of the same description.

Filial affection, love of our country, bravery, sternness (inflexible, except under religions fears); the loftier feelings of a desolate female, under want and affliction, with something of the wild prophetical cast; religious submission, and deep acquiescence in the will of God; – these passions are brought into action, around one centre, if I may use the word, The Grave of the last Saxon.

That Harold's sons landed with a large fleet from Denmark, and were joined by an immense confederate army, in the third year of William's reign, is a well-known historical fact. That York was taken by the confederate army, and that all the Normans, except Sir William Malet, and his family, were killed, is also matter of record.89 That afterwards, the blow against William failing, the whole country, from the Humber to Tyne, from the east to the west, was depopulated by sword and famine, are facts which are also to be found in all historians.

Some slight anachronisms may I hope, be pardoned – if anachronisms they are – such as the year in which the Tower was built, etc.

The plan of the Poem will be found, I trust, simple and coherent, the characters sufficiently marked and contrasted, and the whole conducive, however deficient in other respects, to the excitement of virtuous sympathy, and subservient to that which alone can give dignity to poetry – the cause of moral and religious truth.

THE GRAVE OF THE LAST SAXON

INTRODUCTORY CANTO

Subject – Grave and children of Harold – Confederate army of Danes, Scottish, and English arrived in the Humber the third year of the Conqueror, and marching to York.

"Know ye the land where the bright orange glows!"Oh! rather know ye not the land, belovedOf Liberty, where your brave fathers bled!The land of the white cliffs, where every cotWhose smoke goes up in the clear morning sky,On the green hamlet's edge, stands as secureAs the proud Norman castle's bannered keep!Oh! shall the poet paint a land of slaves,(Albeit, that the richest colours warmHis tablet, glowing from the master's hand,)And thee forget, his country – thee, his home!Fair Italy! thy hills and olive-grovesA lovelier light empurples, or when mornStreams o'er the cloudless van of Apennine,Or more majestic eve, on the wide sceneOf columns, temples, arches, and aqueducts,Sits, like reposing Glory, and collectsHer richest radiance at that parting hour;While distant domes, touched by her hand, shine outMore solemnly, 'mid the gray monumentsThat strew the illustrious plain; yet say, can these,Even when their pomp is proudest, and the sunSinks o'er the ruins of immortal Rome,A holy interest wake, intense as thatWhich visits his full heart, who, severed long,And home returning, sees once more the lightShine on the land where his forefathers sleep;Sees its white cliffs at distance, and exclaims:There I was born, and there my bones shall rest!Then, oh! ye bright pavilions of the East,Ye blue Italian skies, and summer seas,By marble cliffs high-bounded, throwing farA gray illumination through the hazeOf orient morning; ye, Etruscan shades,Where Pan's own pines o'er Valambrosa wave;Scenes where old Tiber, for the mighty deadAs mourning, heavily rolls; or AnioFlings its white foam; or lucid Arno stealsOn gently through the plains of Tuscany;Be ye the impassioned themes of other song.Nor mine, thou wondrous Western World, to callThe thunder of thy cataracts, or paintThe mountains and the vast volcano rangeOf Cordilleras, high above the stirOf human things; lifting to middle airTheir snows in everlasting solitude;Upon whose nether crags the vulture, lordOf summits inaccessible, looks down,Unhearing, when the thunder dies below!Nor, 'midst the irriguous valleys of the south,Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea,Now pause I to admire the bright blue bird,Brightest and least of all its kind, that spinsIts twinkling flight, still humming o'er the flowers,Like a gem of flitting light!To these adieu!Yet ere thy melodies, my harp, are muteFor ever, whilst the stealing day goes outWith slow-declining pace, I would essayOne patriot theme, one ancient British song:So might I fondly dream, when the cold turfIs heaped above my head, and carping tonguesHave ceased, some tones, Old England, thy green hillsMight then remember.Time has reft the shrineWhere the last Saxon, canonized, lay,And every trace has vanished,90 like the lightThat from the high-arched eastern window fell,With broken sunshine on his marble tomb —So have they passed; and silent are the choirs,That to his spirit sang eternal rest;And scattered are his bones who raised those walls,Where, from the field of blood slowly conveyed,His mangled corse, with torch and orison,Before the altar, and in holy earth,Was laid! Yet oft I muse upon the theme;And now, whilst solemn the slow curfew tolls,Years and dim centuries seem to unfoldTheir shroud, as at the summons; and I thinkHow sad that sound on every English heartSmote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea91Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it brokeFirst on the silence of the night, far heardThrough the deep forest! Phantoms of the past,Ye gather round me! Voices of the dead,Ye come by fits! And now I hear, far off,Faint Eleesons swell, whilst to the faneThe long procession, and the pomp of death,Moves visible; and now one voice is heardFrom a vast multitude, Harold, farewell!Farewell, and rest in peace! That sable carBears the last Saxon to his grave; the lastFrom Hengist, of the long illustrious lineThat swayed the English sceptre. Hark! a cry!'Tis from his mother, who, with frantic mien,Follows the bier: with manly look composed,Godwin, his eldest-born, and Adela,Her head declined, her hand upon her browBeneath the veil, supported by his arm,Sorrowing succeed! Lo! pensive Edmund thereLeads Wolfe, the least and youngest, by the hand!Brothers and sisters, silent and in tears,Follow their father to the dust, beneathWhose eye they grew. Last and alone, behold,Magnus,92 subduing the deep sigh, with browOf sterner acquiescence. Slowly paceThe sad remains of England's chivalry,The few whom Hastings' field of carnage spared,To follow their slain monarch's hearse this night,Whose corse is borne beneath the escutcheoned pall,To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train,Imagination thus embodies it,Moves onward to the abbey's western porch,Whose windows and retiring aisles reflectThe long funereal lights. Twelve stoled monks,Each with a torch, and pacing, two and two,Along the pillared nave, with crucifixAloft, begin the supplicating chant,Intoning "Miserere Domine."Now the stone coffins in the earth are laidOf Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth,93Brave brethren slain in one disastrous day.And hark! again the monks and choristersSing, pacing round the grave-stone, "RequiemEternam dona iis." To his graveSo was King Harold borne, within those wallsHis bounty raised: his children knelt and wept,Then slow departed, never in this world,Perhaps, to meet again. But who is she,Her dark hair streaming on her brow, her eyeWild, and her breast deep-heaving? She beheldAt distance the due rites, nor wept, nor spake,And now is gone!Alas! from that sad hour,By many fates, all who that hour had metWere scattered. Godwin, Edmund, Adela,Exiles in Denmark, there a refuge foundFrom England's stormy fortunes. Three long yearsHave passed; again they tread their native land.The Danish armament beneath the Spurn94Is anchored. Twenty thousand men at armsFollow huge Waltheof, on his barbed steed,His battle-axe hung at the saddle-bow;Morcar and Edwin, English earls, are there,With red-cross banner, and ten thousand menFrom Ely and Northumberland; they raiseThe death-song of defiance, and advanceWith bows of steel. From Scotland's mountain-glens,From sky-blue lochs, and the wild highland heaths,From Lothian villages, along the banksOf Forth, King Malcolm leads his clansmen bold,And, dauntless as romantic, bids unfurlThe banner of St Andrew; by his sideMild Edgar Atheling, a stripling boy,His brother, heir to England's throne, appears;The dawn of youth on his fresh cheek; and, lo!The broadswords glitter as the tartaned troopsMarch to the pibroch's sound. The Danish trumpBrays like a gong, heard to the holts and townsOf Lincolnshire.With crests and shields the same,A lion frowning on each helmet's cone,Like the two brothers famed in ancient song,95Godwin and Edmund, sons of Harold, leadFrom Scandinavia and the Baltic islesThe impatient Northmen to the embattled hostOn Humber's side. The standards wave in air,Drums roll, and glittering columns file, and armsFlash to the morn, and bannered-trumpets bray,Heralds or armourers from tent to tentAre hurrying; crests, and spears, and steel-bows gleam,Far as the eye can reach; barbed horses neigh,Their mailed riders wield the battle-axe,Or draw the steel-bows with a clang; and, hark!From the vast moving host is heard one shout,Conquest or death! – as now the sun ascends,And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur96Flings its first beam – one mighty shout is heard,Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on! – to York!CANTO FIRST

Castle of Ravenspur, on the Humber – Daughter of Harold – Ailric, the monk.