The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles ... with memoir, critical dissertation, and explanatory notes, by the Rev. George Gilfillan |
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 | The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles |  |
CONCLUSION.
William, on his imperial throne, at York
Is seated, clad in steel, all but his face,
From casque to spur. His brow yet wears a frown,
And his eyes show the unextinguished fire
Of steadfast vengeance, as his inmost heart
Yet labours, like the ocean after storm.
His sword unsheathed appears, which none besides
Can wield; his sable beard, full and diffused,
Below the casque is spread; the lion ramps
Upon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold.
Behind him stand his barons, in dark file
Ranged, and each feature hid beneath the helms;
Spears, with escutcheoned banners on their points,
Above their heads are raised. Though all alike
Are cased in armour, know ye not that knight
Who next, behind the king, seems more intent
To listen, and a loftier stature bears?
'Tis bold Montgomerie; and he who kneels
Before the seat, his armour all with gules
Chequered, and chequered his small banneret,
Is Lord Fitzalain. William holds a scroll
In his right hand, and to Fitzalain speaks:
All these, the forfeited domains and land
Of Edwin and of Morcar, traitor-lords,
From Ely to the banks of Trent, I give
To thee and thine!
Is seated, clad in steel, all but his face,
From casque to spur. His brow yet wears a frown,
And his eyes show the unextinguished fire
Of steadfast vengeance, as his inmost heart
Yet labours, like the ocean after storm.
His sword unsheathed appears, which none besides
Can wield; his sable beard, full and diffused,
Below the casque is spread; the lion ramps
Upon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold.
Behind him stand his barons, in dark file
Ranged, and each feature hid beneath the helms;
Spears, with escutcheoned banners on their points,
Above their heads are raised. Though all alike
Are cased in armour, know ye not that knight
Who next, behind the king, seems more intent
To listen, and a loftier stature bears?
'Tis bold Montgomerie; and he who kneels
Before the seat, his armour all with gules
Chequered, and chequered his small banneret,
Is Lord Fitzalain. William holds a scroll
In his right hand, and to Fitzalain speaks:
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Of Edwin and of Morcar, traitor-lords,
From Ely to the banks of Trent, I give
To thee and thine!
Fitzalian lowly knelt,
And kissed his iron hand; then slowly rose,
Whilst all the barons shouted, Live the king!
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 grave
Of the last Saxon! The huge fortress frowns
Still 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 tomb
That held them, where the Lea's lorn wave delayed,
Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heard
The Eleeson pealing for thy soul,
A fragment stands, and none will know the spot
Where those whom thou didst love in dust repose,
Thy children! But the tale may not be vain,
If haply it awake one duteous thought
Of filial tenderness.
The tale of Harold's children, and the grave
Of the last Saxon! The huge fortress frowns
Still 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 tomb
That held them, where the Lea's lorn wave delayed,
Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heard
The Eleeson pealing for thy soul,
A fragment stands, and none will know the spot
Where those whom thou didst love in dust repose,
Thy children! But the tale may not be vain,
If haply it awake one duteous thought
Of filial tenderness.
That day of blood
Is passed, like a dark spectre: but it speaks
Even to the kingdoms of the earth:
Is passed, like a dark spectre: but it speaks
Even to the kingdoms of the earth:
Behold
The hand of God! From that dark day of blood,
When Vengeance triumphed, and the curfew knolled,
England, thy proud majestic policy
Slowly arose! Through centuries of shade
The pile august of British liberty
Towered, till behold it stand in clearer light
Illustrious. At its base, fell Tyranny
Gnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;
Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skies
Uplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloft
Sounds 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!
The hand of God! From that dark day of blood,
When Vengeance triumphed, and the curfew knolled,
England, thy proud majestic policy
Slowly arose! Through centuries of shade
The pile august of British liberty
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Illustrious. At its base, fell Tyranny
Gnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;
Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skies
Uplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloft
Sounds 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!
| The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles | |