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33
IN WALTHAM ABBEY
Here is the temple he builded, he, Harold, the bravest of Saxons.
Somewhere near it he lies, where once rose the canons' high altar.
Altar and rood and choir walls indeed have long crumbled to ruin;
Only the nave abides yet, with its double arcade of huge columns,
Carven eight centuries since with deep groovings of spiral and chevron.
Here when the traitorous Tostig, his brother, had failen at Stamford,
Hard by Northumbrian Derwent, with Harold Hardrada, the Norseman,
Came, with a few in his train, the victor, King Harold, the Saxon.
Afar in the north the foes of his England were broken and flying;
Anear in the south the foes of his England were gathered together.
There in the north had he shivered the might of fierce Harold Hardrada;
Now in the south must he scatter the armies of William the Norman,
He that would make England free, he, Harold, the great son of Godwin.
So, as he entered the fane that in happier time he had builded,
Slowly he trod the long nave till he came before the high altar,
There bowed him down to the pavement, and tarried prostrate and silent.
Somewhere near it he lies, where once rose the canons' high altar.
Altar and rood and choir walls indeed have long crumbled to ruin;
Only the nave abides yet, with its double arcade of huge columns,
Carven eight centuries since with deep groovings of spiral and chevron.
Here when the traitorous Tostig, his brother, had failen at Stamford,
Hard by Northumbrian Derwent, with Harold Hardrada, the Norseman,
Came, with a few in his train, the victor, King Harold, the Saxon.
Afar in the north the foes of his England were broken and flying;
Anear in the south the foes of his England were gathered together.
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Now in the south must he scatter the armies of William the Norman,
He that would make England free, he, Harold, the great son of Godwin.
So, as he entered the fane that in happier time he had builded,
Slowly he trod the long nave till he came before the high altar,
There bowed him down to the pavement, and tarried prostrate and silent.
Shadows of morning had shortened to midday and once more had lengthened
Ere he rose up from the stones, that, it may be, had heard his petitions,
God and they only, for no human ear heard aught in that silence.
Who may tell what were the thoughts of the king in those hours of abasement?
Better than he knew no one the power of the Norman invader,
Better than he who should know the strength or the weakness of England?
Was it foretold, as he lay there in humble, silent entreaty,
What was to hap on the morrow, who was to win in the conflict?
Was it revealed that the day at Senlac should be William's, not Harold's,
Or was it left in the veil of the future, dark wrapt from foreknowledge?
This only is told us: That when the long vigil was ended and Harold,
Rising, had passed down the nave to the door at the westward, and turning,
Faced yet again the high altar, the great rood before it moved slowly,
Leaned itself forward, then bowed as in pity, to Harold.
Ere he rose up from the stones, that, it may be, had heard his petitions,
God and they only, for no human ear heard aught in that silence.
Who may tell what were the thoughts of the king in those hours of abasement?
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Better than he who should know the strength or the weakness of England?
Was it foretold, as he lay there in humble, silent entreaty,
What was to hap on the morrow, who was to win in the conflict?
Was it revealed that the day at Senlac should be William's, not Harold's,
Or was it left in the veil of the future, dark wrapt from foreknowledge?
This only is told us: That when the long vigil was ended and Harold,
Rising, had passed down the nave to the door at the westward, and turning,
Faced yet again the high altar, the great rood before it moved slowly,
Leaned itself forward, then bowed as in pity, to Harold.
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So runs the legend of Waltham concerning that day ere the battle.
Forth from the abbey he went on that evening in early October,
Mustered his legions together at London and marched to the southward,
On to the hill of Senlac, where he pitched his camp on the morrow,
On to the gloom of defeat and of death at the hands of the Norman,
On to the glory of death for the earldom of Wessex and England!
Forth from the abbey he went on that evening in early October,
Mustered his legions together at London and marched to the southward,
On to the hill of Senlac, where he pitched his camp on the morrow,
On to the gloom of defeat and of death at the hands of the Norman,
On to the glory of death for the earldom of Wessex and England!
This is the shrine of his building: Here his footsteps awakened the echoes
(Echoes reverberate still through eight centuries lost in the darkness)
On that far distant day when he moved 'mid these arches in anguish of spirit.
(Echoes reverberate still through eight centuries lost in the darkness)
On that far distant day when he moved 'mid these arches in anguish of spirit.
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