The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

Let us go up to the west turret's top,Adela cried; let us go up – the nightIs still, and to the east great ocean's humIs scarcely heard. If but a wandering step,Or distant shout, or dip of hastening oar,Or tramp of steed, or far-off trumpet, breakThe hushed horizon, we can catch the soundWhen breathless expectation watches there.Upon the platform of the highest towerOf Ravenspur, beneath the lonely lamp,At midnight, leaning o'er the battlement,The daughter of slain Harold, Adela,And a gray monk who never left her side,Watched: for this night or death or victoryThe Saxon standard waits.Hark! 'twas a shout,And sounds at distance as of marching men!No! all is silent, save the tide, that rakes,At times, the beach, or breaks beneath the cliff.Listen! was it the fall of hastening oars?No! all is hushed! Oh! when will they return?Adela sighed; for three long nights had passed,Since her brave brothers left these bastioned walls,And marched, with the confederate host, to York.They come not: Have they perished? So dark thoughtsArose, and then she raised her look to heaven,And clasped the cross, and prayed more fervently.Her lifted eye in the pale lamp-light shone,Touched with a tear; soft airs of ocean blewHer long light hair, whilst audibly she cried,Preserve them, blessed Mary! oh! preserveMy brothers! As she prayed, one pale small star,A still and lonely star, through the black nightLooked out, like hope! Instant, a trumpet rang,And voices rose, and hurrying lights appeared;Now louder shouts along the platform peal —Oh! they are Normans! she exclaimed, and graspedThe old man's hand, and said, Yet we will dieAs Harold's daughter; and, with mien and voice,Firm and unfaltering, kissed the crucifix.They knelt together, and the old man spoke:All here is toil and tempest – we shall go,Daughter of Harold, where the weary rest.Oh! holy Mary, 'tis the clank of steelUp the stone stairs! and, lo! beneath the lamp,In arms, the beaver of his helmet raised,Some light hairs straying on his ruddy cheek,With breath hastily drawn, and cheering smile,Young Atheling: The Saxon banner waves!Oh! are my brothers safe? cried Adela,Speak! speak! oh! tell me, do my brothers live?Atheling answered: They will soon appear;My post was on the eastern hills, a scoutCame breathless, sent from Edmund, and I hied,With a small company, and horses fleet,At his command, to thee. He bade me say,Even now, upon the citadel of York,Above the bursting fires, and rolling smoke,The Saxon banner waves.I thank thee, Lord!My brothers live! cried Adela, and kneltUpon the platform, with uplifted hands,And look to heaven; – then rising, with a smile:We have watched, I and this old man here,Hour after hour, through the long lingering night,And now 'tis almost morning: I will stayTill I have heard my brother's distant hornFrom the west woods; – but you are weary, youth?Oh, no! I will keep watch with you till dawn;To me most soothing is an hour like this!And who that saw, as now, the morning starsBegin to pale, and the gray twilight stealSo calmly on the seas, and wide-hushed world,Could deem there was a sound of miseryOn earth; nay, who could hear thy gentle voice,Fair maid, and think there was a voice of hateOr strife beneath the stillness of that copeAbove us! Oh! I hate the noise of arms —Here will I watch with you. Then, after pause,Poor England is not what it once has been;And strange are both our fortunes.Atheling,(Adela answered) early pietyHath disciplined my heart to every change.How didst thou pass in safety from this landOf slavery and sorrow?He replied:When darker jealousy and lowering hateSat on the brow of William, England mourned,And one dark spirit of conspiracyMuttered its curses through the land. 'Twas then,With fiercer glare, the lion's eye was turnedOn me: – My sisters and myself embarked —The wide world was before us – we embarked,With some few faithful friends, and from the seaGazed tearful, for a moment, on the shoresWe left for ever (so it then appeared).Poor Margaret hid her face; but the fresh windSwelled the broad mainsail, and the lessening land,The towers, the spires, the villages, the smoke,Were seen no more.When now at sea, the windsBlew adverse, for to Holland was our course:More fearful rose the storm; the east wind sangLouder, till wrecked upon the shores of ForthOur vessel lay. Here, friendless, we imploredA short sojourn and succour. Scotland's kingThen sat in Dunfermline; he heard the taleOf our distress, and flew himself to save;But when he saw my sister Margaret,Young, innocent, and beautiful in tears,His heart was moved.Oh! welcome here, he cried:'Tis Heaven hath led you. Lady, look on me —If such a flower be cast to the bleak winds,'Twere meet I took and wore it next my heart.Judged he not well, fair maid?Thou know'st the rest;Compassion nurtured love, and Margaret(Such are the events of ruling Providence)Is now all Scotland's queen!To join the bandsOf warriors in one cause assembled here,King Malcolm left his land of hills; his armMight make the Conqueror tremble on his throne!Even should we fail, my sister MargaretWould love and honour you; and I might hope,(Oh! might I?) on the banks of Tay or TweedWith thee to wander, where no curfew sounds,And mark the summer sun, beyond the hills,Sink in its glory, and then, hand in hand,Wind through the woods, and —Adela replied,With smile complacent, Listen; I will be(So to beguile the creeping hours of time)A tale-teller. Two years we held sojournIn Denmark; two long weary years, and sighedWhen, looking on the southern deep, we thoughtOf our poor country. Give me men and ships!Godwin still cried; oh! give me men and ships!The king commanded, and his armament —A mightier never stemmed the Baltic deep,Sent forth by sea-kings of the north, or bentOn hardier enterprise; for not some isleOf the lone Orcades was now the prize,But England's throne.His mighty armamentNow left the shores of Denmark. Our brave shipsBurst through the Baltic straits, how gloriously!I heard the trumpets ring; I saw the sailsOf nigh three hundred war-ships, the dim vergeOf the remote horizon's skiey trackBestudding, here and there, like gems of lightDropped from the radiance of the morning sunOn the gray waste of waters. So our shipsSwept o'er the billows of the north, and steeredRight on to England.Foremost of the fleetOur gallant vessel rode; around the mastEmblazoned shields were ranged, and plumed crestsShook as the north-east rose. Upon the prow,More ardent, Godwin, my brave brother, stood,And milder Edmund, on whose mailed armI hung, when the white waves before us swelled,And parted. The broad banner, in full length,Streamed out its folds, on which the Saxon horseRamped, as impatient on the land to leap,To which the winds still bore it bravely on;Whilst the red cross on the front banner shone,The hoar deep crimsoning.Winds, bear us on;Bear us as cheerily, till white Albion's cliffsResound to our triumphant shouts; till there,On his own Tower, that frowns above the Thames,Even there we plant these banners and this cross,And stamp the Conqueror and his crown to dust!They would have kept me on a foreign shore;But could I leave my brothers! I with themGrew up, with them I left my native land,With them all perils have I braved, of seaOr war, all storms of hard adversity;Let death betide, I reck not; all I askIs yet once more, in this sad world, to kneelUpon my father's grave, and kiss the earth.When the fourth morning gleamed along the deep,England, Old England! burst the general cry:England, Old England! Every eye, intent,Was turned; and Godwin pointed with his swordTo Flamborough, pale rising o'er the surge.Nearer into the kingdom's heart bear onThe death-storm of our vengeance! Godwin cried.Soon, like a cloud, the northern Foreland rose —Know ye those cliffs, towering in giant state!But, hark! along the shores alarum-bellsRing out more loud, blast answers blast, the swordsOf hurrying horsemen, and projected spears,Flash to the sun. On yonder castle wallsA thousand bows are bent; again our courseBack to the north is turned. Now twilight veiledThe sinking sands of Yarmouth, and we heardA long deep toll from many a village towerOn shore – and, lo! the scattered inland lights,That sprinkled winding ocean's lowly verge,At once are lost in darkness. God in heaven,It is the curfew! Godwin cried, and smoteHis forehead. We all heard that sullen soundFor the first time, that night; but the winds blew,Our ship sailed out of hearing; yet we thoughtOf the poor mother, who, on winter nights,When her belated husband from the woodWas not come back, her lonely taper lit,And turned the glass, and saw the faggot-flameShine on the faces of her little ones:Those times will ne'er return.Darkness descends;Again the sun is rising o'er the waves;And now hoarse Humber roars beneath our keels,And we have landedYea, and struck a blow,Such as may make the crowned Conqueror quail,Edgar replied.Grant Heaven that we may live,Adela cried, in love and peace again,When every storm is past. But this good manIs silent. Ailric, does no hope, even now,Arise on thy dark heart? Good father, speak!With aspect mild, on which its fitful lightThe watch-tower lamp threw pale, the monk replied:Youth, on thy light hair and ingenuous browMost comely sits the morn of life; on me,And this bare head, the night of time descendsIn sorrow. I look back upon the past,And think of joy and sadness upon earth,Like the vast ocean's fluctuating toilFrom everlasting! I have seen its wasteNow in the sunshine sleeping; now high-ridgedWith storms; and such the kingdoms of the earth.Yes, youth, and flattering fortune, and the lightOf summer days, are as the radianceThat flits along the solitary waves,Even whilst we gaze, and say, How beautiful!So fitful and so perishing the dreamOf human things! But there is light above,Undying; and, at times, faint harmoniesHeard, by the weary pilgrim, in his wayO'er perilous rocks, and through unwatered wastes,Who looks up, fainting, and prays earnestlyTo pass into that rest, whence sounds so sweetCome, whispering of hope; else it were bestBeneath the load the forlorn heart enduresTo sink at once; to shut the eyes on thingsThat sear the sight; and so to wrap the soulIn sullen, tearless, ruthless apathy!Therefore, 'midst every human change, I dropA tear upon the cross, and all is calm;Yea, full of blissful and of brightest views,On this dark tide of time.Youth, thou hast knownAdversity; even in thy morn of life,The springtide rainbow fades, and many days,And many years, perchance, of weal or woeHang o'er thee! happy, if through every changeThy constant heart, thy steadfast view, be fixedUpon that better kingdom, where the crownImmortal is held out to holy hope,Beyond the clouds that rest upon the grave.Oh! I remember when King Harold stoodBlooming in youth like thee; I saw him crowned —I heard the loud voice of a nation hailHis rising star; then, flaming in mid-heavenThe red portentous comet,97 like the handUpon the wall, came forth: its fatal courseAll marked, and gazed in terror, as it lookedWith lurid light upon this land. It passed;Old men had many bodings; but I saw,Reckless, King Harold, in his plumed helm,Ride foremost of the mailed chivalry,That, when the fierce Norwegian passed the seas,Met his host man to man; I saw the sword,Advanced and glittering, in the victor's hand,That smote the Hardrada98 to the earth! To-dayKing Harold rose, like an avenging God;To-morrow (so it seemed, so short the space),To-morrow, through the field of blood, we soughtHis mangled corse amid the heaps of slain:Shall I recount the event more faithfully?Its spectred memory never since that hourHas left my heart.William was in his tent,Spread on the battle-plain, on that same nightWhen seventy thousand dead lay at his feet;They who, at sunrise, with bent bows and spears,Confronted and defied him, at his feetLay dead! Alone he watches in his tent,At midnight; 'midst a sight so terribleWe came; we stood before him, where he sat,I and my brother Osgood. Who are ye?Sternly he asked; and Osgood thus replied:Conqueror, and lord, and soon to be a king,We, two poor monks of Waltham Abbey, kneelBefore thee, sorrowing! He who is slainTo us was bountiful. He raised those wallsWhere we devote our life to prayer and praise.Oh! by the mercies which the God of allHath shewn to thee this day, grant our request;To search for his dead body, through this fieldOf terror, that his bones may rest with us.Your king hath met the meed of broken faith,William replied. But yet he shall not wantA sepulchre; and on this very spotMy purpose stands, as I have vowed to God,To build a holy monastery: here,A hundred monks shall pray for all who fellIn this dread strife; and your King Harold hereShall have due honours and a stately tomb.Still on our knees, we answered, Oh! not so,Dread sovereign; – hear us, of your clemency.We beg his body; beg it for the sakeOf our successors; beg it for ourselves,That we may bury it in the same spotHimself ordained when living; where the choirsMay sing for his repose, in distant years,When we are dust and ashes.Then go forth,And search for him, at the first dawn of day,King William said. We crossed our breasts, and passed,Slow rising, from his presence. So we went,In silence, to the quarry of the dead.The sun rose on that still and dismal host;Toiling from corse to corse, we trod in blood,From morn till noon toiling, and then I said,Seek Editha, her whom he loved. She came;And through the field of death she passed: she lookedOn many a face, ghastly upturned; her handUnloosed the helmet, smoothed the clotted hair,And many livid hands she took in hers;Till, stooping o'er a mangled corse, she shrieked,Then into tears burst audibly, and turnedHer face, and with a faltering voice pronounced,Oh, Harold! We took up, and bore the corseFrom that sad spot, and washed the ghastly woundDeep in the forehead, where the broken barbWas fixed.So weltering from the field, we boreKing Harold's corse. A hundred Norman knightsMet the sad train, with pikes that trailed the ground.Our old men prayed, and spoke of evil daysTo come; the women smote their breasts and wept;The little children knelt beside the way,As on to Waltham the funereal carMoved slow. Few and disconsolate the trainOf English earls, for few, alas! remained;So many in the field of death lay cold.The horses slowly paced, till Waltham towersBefore us rose. There, with long tapered blaze,Our brethren met us, chanting, two and two,The "Miserere" of the dead. And there —But, my child Adela, you are in tears —There at the foot of the high altar liesThe last of Saxon kings. Sad Editha,At distance, watched the rites, and from that hourWe never saw her more.A distant trumpNow rung – again! – again! – and thrice a trumpHas answered from the walls of Ravenspur.My brothers! they are here! Adela cried,And left the tower in breathless ardour. YorkFlames to the sky! a general voice was heard —The drawbridge clanks; into the inner courtA mailed man rides on – York is no more!The cry without redoubles. On the groundThe rider flung his bloody sword, and raisedHis helm, dismounting: the first dawn of dayGleamed on the shattered plume. Oh! Adela,He cried, your brother Godwin! and she flew,And murmuring, My brave brother! hid her face,Clasping his mailed breast. Soon gazing round,She cried, But where is Edmund? Was he wontTo linger?Edmund has a sacred charge,Godwin replied. But trust his anxious love,We soon shall hear his voice. I need some rest —'Tis now broad day; but we have watched and fought:I can sleep sound, though the shrill bird of mornMount and upbraid my slumbers with her song.Tranquil and clear the autumnal day declined:The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shadesOn the gray bastioned walls; airs from the deepWandered, and touched the cordage as they passed,Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirredScarce the quiescent pennant; the bright seaLay silent in its glorious amplitude,Without; far up, in the pale atmosphere,A white cloud, here and there, hung overhead,And some red freckles streaked the horizon's edge,Far as the sight could reach; beneath the rocks,That reared their dark brows beetling o'er the bay,The gulls and guillemots, with short quaint cry,Just broke the sleeping stillness of the air,Or, skimming, almost touched the level main,With wings far seen, and more intensely white,Opposed to the blue space; whilst PanopePlayed in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream,Inland, went sounding on, by rocks and sandsAnd castle, yet so sounding as it seemedA voice amidst the hushed and listening worldThat spoke of peace; whilst from the bastion's pointOne piping red-breast might almost be heard.Such quiet all things hushed, so peaceableThe hour: the very swallows, ere they leaveThe coast to pass a long and weary wayO'er ocean's solitude, seem to renewOnce more their summer feelings, as a lightSo sweet would last for ever, whilst they flockIn the brief sunshine of the turret-top.'Twas at this hour of evening, AdelaAnd Godwin, now restored by rest, went forth,Linked arm in arm, upon the eastern beach,Beyond the headland's shade. If such an hourSeemed smiling on the heart, how smiled it nowTo him who yesternight, a soldier, stoodAmid the direst sight of human strifeAnd bloodshed; heard the cries, the trumpet's blast,Ring o'er the dying; saw, with all its towers,A city blazing to the midnight sky,And mangled groups of miserable men,Gasping or dead, whilst with his iron heelHe splashed the blood beneath! How changed the scene!The sun's last light upon the battlements,The sea, the landscape, the peace-breathing air,Remembered both of the departed hoursOf early life, when once they had a home,A country, where their father wore a crown.What changes since that time, for them and allThey loved! how many found an early grave,Cut off by the red sword! how many mourned,Scattered by various fates, through distant lands!How desolate their own poor country, boundBy the oppressor's chain! As thoughts like theseArose, the bells of rural NevilthorpeRang out a joyous peal, rang merrily,For tidings heard from York: their melodyMingled with things forgotten. Until then,And then remembered freshly, AdelaThat instant turned to hide her tears, and sawHer brother Edmund leading by the handA boy of lovely mien and footstep lightAlong the sands. My sister, Edmund cried,See here a footpage I have brought from YorkTo serve a lady fair! The boy held outHis hand to Adela, as he would say,Look, and protect me, lady. Adela,Advancing with a smile and glowing cheek,Cried, Welcome, truant brother; and then tookThe child's right hand, and said, My pretty page,And have you not a tale to tell to me?The boy spake nothing, but looked earnestlyAnd anxiously at Edmund. Edmund said,If he is silent, I must speak for him.'Twas when the minster flamed, and, sword in hand,Godwin, and Waltheof, and stern Hereward,Directed the red slaughter; black with smokeI burst into the citadel, and saw,Not the grim warder, with his huge axe up,But o'er her child, a frantic mother, mute99With horror, in delirious agony,Clasping it to her bosom; stern and stillThe father stood, his hand upon his brow,As praying, in that hour, that God might make,In mercy, the last trial brief. Fear not —I am a man – nay, fear not me, I cried,And seizing this child's hand, in safety placed,Amidst the smoke, and sounds and sights of death,Him and his mother! She with bursting heartKnelt down to bless me: when I saw that boy,So beautiful, I thought of Adela,And said, Oh! trust with his preserver himWhom every eye must view with tender love,Oh! trust me; for his safety, lo! I pledgeMy honour and my life.And I have broughtMy trusted charge, that you, my Adela,May show him gentler courtesy than thoseWhom war in its stern trade has almost steeled.His sister kissed the child's light hair and cheek,And folded his small hands in hers, and said,You shall be my true knight, and wear a plume,Wilt thou not, boy; and for a lady's loveFight, like a valiant soldier! I will die,The poor child said, for friends like those who savedMy father and my mother; and againAdela kissed his forehead and his eyes,And said, But we are Saxons!As she spoke,The winds began to muster, and the seaSwelled with a sound more solemn, whilst the sunWas sinking, and its last and lurid lightStreaked the long line of cumbrous clouds, that hungIn wild red masses o'er the murmuring deep,Now flickering fast with foam. The sea-fowl flewRapidly on, o'er the black-lifted surge,Borne down the wind, and then was seen no more.Meantime the dark deep wilder heaves, and, hark!Heavily overhead the gathered stormComes sounding!Haste! – and in the castle-keepList to the winds and waves that roar without.CANTO SECOND

Waltham Forest – Tower – William and his Barons.

There had been fearful sounds in the air last nightIn the wild wolds of Holderness, when YorkFlamed to the midnight sky, and spells of deathWere heard amidst the depth of Waltham woods;For there the wan and weird sisters metTheir imps, and the dark spirits that rejoiceWhen foulest deeds are done on earth, and thereIn dread accordance rose their dismal joy.SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGSAround, around, around,Troop and dance we to the sound,Whilst mocking imps cry, Ho! ho! ho!On earth there will be woe! more woe!SPIRIT OF THE EARTHQUAKEArise, swart fiends, 'tis I command;Burst your caves, and rock the land.SPIRIT OF THE STORMLoud tempests, sweep the conscious wood!SPIRIT OF THE BATTLEI scent from earth more blood! more blood!SPIRIT OF THE FIREWhen the wounded cry,And the craven die,I will ride on the spires,And the red volumes of the bursting fires.SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGSAround, around, around,Dance we to the dismal soundOf dying cries and mortal woe,Whilst mocking imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!FIRST SPIRITHear!Spirits that our 'hests performIn the earthquake or the storm,Appear, appear!A fire is lighted – the pale smoke goes up;Obscure, terrific features through the cloudsAre seen, and a wild laughter heard, We come!FIRST MINISTERING SPIRITI have syllables of dread;They can wake the dreamless dead.SECOND SPIRITI, a dark sepulchral song,That can lead hell's phantom-throng.THIRD SPIRITLike a nightmare I will restThis night upon King William's breast!SPIRITS AND NIGHT-HAGSAround, around, around,Dance we to the dismal soundOf dying shrieks and mortal woe,Whilst antic imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!They vanished, and the earth shook where they stood.That night, King William first within the TowerReceived his vassal barons; in that TowerWhich oft since then has echoed to night-shrieksOf secret murder, or the lone lament.Now other sounds were heard, for on this nightIts canopied and vaulted chambers rangWith minstrelsy; whilst sounds of long acclaimRe-echoed, from the loopholes, o'er the ThamesThe drawbridge, and the ponderous cullis-gate,Frowned on the moat; the flanking towers aspiredO'er the embattled walls, where proudly wavedThe Norman banner. William, laugh to scornThe murmurs of conspiracy and hateThat round thee gather, like the storms of nightMustering, when murder hides her visored mien!Now, what hast thou to fear! Let the fierce DaneInto the centre of thy kingdom sweep,With hostile armament, even like the tideOf the hoarse Humber, on whose waves he rode!Let foes confederate; let one voice of hate,One cry of instant vengeance, one deep curseBe heard, from Waltham woods to Holderness!Let Waltheof, stern in steel; let Hereward,Impatient as undaunted, flash their swords;Let the boy Edgar, backed by Scotland's king,Advance his feeble claim, and don his casque,Whose brows might better a blue bonnet grace;Let Edwin and vindictive Morcar joinThe sons of Harold, – what hast thou to fear?London's sole Tower might laugh their strength to scorn!Upon that night when York's proud castle fell,Here William held his court. The torches glaredOn crest and crozier. Knights and prelates bowedBefore their sovereign. He, his knights and peersSurveying with a stern complacency,Inclined not from his seat, o'ercanopiedWith golden valance, woven by no hand,Save of the Queen. Yet calm his countenanceShone, and his brow a dignified reposeMarked kingly; high his forehead, and besprentWith dark hair, interspersed with gray; his eyeGlanced amiable, chiefly when the lightOf a brief smile attempered majesty.His beard was dark and heavy, yet diffused,Low as the lion ramping on his breastEngrailed upon the mail.Odo approached,And knelt, then rising, placed the diademUpon his brow, with laurels intertwined.Again the voice of acclamation rang,And from the galleries a hundred harpsResounded Roland's song! Long live the King!The barons, and the prelates, and the knights,Long live the Conqueror! cried; a god on earth!That instant the high vaulted chamber shookAs with a blast from heaven, and all was muteAround him, and the very fortress rocked,As it would topple on their heads. He roseDisturbed and frowning, for tumultuous thoughtsCrowded like night upon his heart; then wavedHis hand. The barons, abbots, knights retire.Behold him now alone! before a lampA crucifix appears; upon the groundLies the same sword that Hastings' battle dyedDeep to the hilt in gore; behold, he kneelsAnd prays, Thou only, Lord, art ever great;Have mercy on my sins! The crucifixShook as he spoke, shook visibly, and, hark!There is a low moan, as of dying men,At distance heard.Then William first knew fear.He had heard tumults of the battle-field,The noise, the glorious hurrahs, and the clangOf trumpets round him, but no sound like thisEre smote with unknown terror on his heart,As if the eye of God that moment turnedAnd saw it beating.Rising slow, he flungUpon a couch his agitated limbs;The lamp was near him; on the ground his swordAnd helmet lay; short troubled slumbers stole,And darkly rose the spirit of his dream.He saw a field of blood, – it passed away;A glittering palace rose, with mailed menThronged, and the voice of multitudes was heardAcclaiming: suddenly the sounds had ceased,The glittering palace vanished, and, behold!Long winding cloisters, echoing to the chantOf stoled fathers; and the mass-song ceased —Then a dark tomb appeared, and, lo! a shapeAs of a phantom-king!Nearer it came,And nearer yet, in silence, through the gloom.Advancing – still advancing: the cold glareOf armour shone as it approached, and nowIt stands o'er William's couch! The spectre gazedA while, then lifting its dark visor up —Horrible vision! – shewed a grisly woundDeep in its forehead, and therein appearedGouts, as yet dropping from an arrow's pointInfixed! And that red arrow's deadly barbThe shadow drew, and pointed at the breastOf William; and the blood dropped on his breast;And through his steely arms one drop of bloodCame cold as death's own hand upon his heart!Whilst a deep voice was heard, Now sleep in peace,I am avenged!Starting, he exclaimed,Hence, horrid phantom! Ho! Fitzalain, ho!Montgomerie! Each baron, with a torch,Before him stood. By dawn of day, he cried,We will to horse. What passes in our thoughtsWe shall unfold hereafter. By St Anne,Albeit, not ten thousand phantoms sentBy the dead Harold can divert our course,They may bear timely warning.'Tis yet night —Give me a battle-song ere daylight dawns;The song of Roland, or of Charlemagne —Or our own fight at Hastings.Torches! ho!And let the gallery blaze with lights! Awake,Harpers of Normandy, awake! By Heaven,I will not sleep till your full chords ring outThe song of England's conquest! Torches! ho!He spoke. Again the blazing galleryEchoed the harpers' song. Old Eustace ledThe choir, and whilst the king paced to and fro,Thus rose the bold, exulting symphony.SONG OF THE BATTLE OF HASTINGSThe Norman armament beneath thy rocks, St Valerie,Is moored; and, streaming to the morn, three hundred banners fly,Of crimson silk; with golden cross, effulgent o'er the rest,That banner, proudest in the fleet, streams, which the Lord had blessed.The gale is fair, the sails are set, cheerily the south wind blows,And Norman archers, all in steel, have grasped their good yew-bows;Aloud the harpers strike their harps, whilst morning light is flungUpon the cross-bows and the shields, that round the masts are hung.Speed on, ye brave! 'tis William leads; bold barons, at his word,Lo! sixty thousand men of might for William draw the sword.So, bound to England's southern shore, we rolled upon the seas,And gallantly the white sails set were, and swelling to the breeze.On, on, to victory or death! now rose the general cry;The minstrels sang, On, on, ye brave, to death or victory!Mark yonder ship, how straight she steers; ye knights and barons brave,'Tis William's ship, and proud she rides, the foremost o'er the wave.And now we hailed the English coast, and, lo! on Beachy Head,The radiance of the setting sun majestical is shed.The fleet sailed on, till, Pevensey! we saw thy welcome strand;Duke William now his anchor casts, and dauntless leaps to land.The English host, by Harold led, at length appear in sight,And now they raise a deafening shout, and stand prepared for fight;The hostile legions halt a while, and their long lines display,Now front to front they stand, in still and terrible array.Give out the word, God, and our right! rush like a storm along,Lift up God's banner, and advance, resounding Roland's song!Ye spearmen, poise your lances well, by brave Montgomerie led,Ye archers, bend your bows, and draw your arrows to the head.They draw – the bent bows ring – huzzah! another flight, and hark!How the sharp arrowy shower beneath the sun goes hissing dark.Hark! louder grows the deadly strife, till all the battle-plainIs red with blood, and heaped around with men and horses slain.On, Normans, on! Duke William cried, and Harold, tremble thou,Now think upon thy perjury, and of thy broken vow.The banner100 of thy armed knight, thy shield, thy helm are vain —The fatal shaft has sped, – by Heaven! it hisses in his brain!So William won the English crown, and all his foemen beat,And Harold, and his Britons brave, lay silent at his feet.Enough! the day is breaking, cried the King:Away! away! be armed at my side,Without attendants, and to horse, to horse!CANTO THIRD

Waltham Abbey and Forest – Wild Woman of the Woods.