The Anniversaries Poems in Commemoration of Great Men and Great Events. By Thomas H. Gill |
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October 14.
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October 14.
BATTLE OF HASTINGS. (1066.)
“Eight centuries have rolled away; and where is the Norman now,
or where is not the Saxon?”—
Bulwer Lytton, Harold, b. 12, c. 9.
Hast thou a song, O English bard, for England's day of woe?
Why greetest thou the fatal field that brought thy people low?
They fell for their dear Fatherland, and yet they died in vain;
They fought upon their own free soil, and yet it bore the chain.
Why greetest thou the fatal field that brought thy people low?
They fell for their dear Fatherland, and yet they died in vain;
They fought upon their own free soil, and yet it bore the chain.
Wear not to-day thy singing robes! the song may not be sweet;
O wait not on the conqueror! such service is not meet.
O not for thee to lift thy strain the shaveling host among,
And tell how sharp the Norman lance, the Norman bow how strong!
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O not for thee to lift thy strain the shaveling host among,
And tell how sharp the Norman lance, the Norman bow how strong!
Not thine to thank the dead men's bones, to hymn the awful dust,
And tell how dreadly fought the knights who made the saints their trust!
O sing not for the Bastard! fling back the Pope his curse,
And hold by thine own England dear for better and for worse!
And tell how dreadly fought the knights who made the saints their trust!
O sing not for the Bastard! fling back the Pope his curse,
And hold by thine own England dear for better and for worse!
Yet linger on that battle-field—it asks no tears of shame;
Weep proudly for the long-haired host upon their bed of fame;
High o'er the hapless heroes let the strain majestic ring!
Still, still the balm of melody to smitten Freedom bring!
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High o'er the hapless heroes let the strain majestic ring!
Still, still the balm of melody to smitten Freedom bring!
Ah! scant and sore beset the band that fought for hearth and home!
They stood against a countless host, beneath the curse of Rome;
Against them all the strength of war, the flower of earth was led;
Against them rose the spirit-world! against them came the dead!
They stood against a countless host, beneath the curse of Rome;
Against them all the strength of war, the flower of earth was led;
Against them rose the spirit-world! against them came the dead!
And yet no English cheek turned pale, no English heart waxed faint,
They quailed not for the curse of Rome, the relics of the saint;
Full fiercely smote each English axe, fast stood the scant array—
Back, Norman steed! down, Norman plume! ye shall not win to-day!
They quailed not for the curse of Rome, the relics of the saint;
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Back, Norman steed! down, Norman plume! ye shall not win to-day!
Ah valour vain! ah heedless host by Norman wile undone!
Yet still those broken warriors smote, that English axe hewed on:
Unyielding sank the heroes down upon their awful bed,
And meetly that true English king lay midst those English dead.
Yet still those broken warriors smote, that English axe hewed on:
Unyielding sank the heroes down upon their awful bed,
And meetly that true English king lay midst those English dead.
They lay among the autumn leaves, but ah! more thickly strown!
The trees shall win their glory back; for the dead land make moan!
O! doubly dark o'er England fell that drear October night;
When shall her heart again be warm, her eye again be bright?
The trees shall win their glory back; for the dead land make moan!
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When shall her heart again be warm, her eye again be bright?
It gloweth still! it beameth now! she liveth strong and fair!
Rich was the lading of that field, but England lay not there.
Look up from Senlac, English bard! why mournest thou no more?
Look round! give ear! why burn thy lips? why runs thy rapture o'er?
Rich was the lading of that field, but England lay not there.
Look up from Senlac, English bard! why mournest thou no more?
Look round! give ear! why burn thy lips? why runs thy rapture o'er?
Behold of freeborn Englishmen this England still the home!
Where is the Norman tyrant? where the robber priest of Rome?
Behold the smiter smitten sore, the spoiler made a prey!
Behold the papal banner torn, the relics cast away!
Where is the Norman tyrant? where the robber priest of Rome?
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Behold the papal banner torn, the relics cast away!
Lo! robed in sovereignty serene these English freemen stand;
Hark! sweetly sounds the English speech in the free English land.
Look! look! what state thine England wears! what chains thine England breaks!
List! list! how gloriously she sings! what mighty cheer she speaks!
Hark! sweetly sounds the English speech in the free English land.
Look! look! what state thine England wears! what chains thine England breaks!
List! list! how gloriously she sings! what mighty cheer she speaks!
Look round the realm! look round the world! thine England stretches wide;
About the earth she flings her arms, across the globe doth stride:
Breaks on this eye the Orient beam, on that the Western glow;
This hand holds fast the realm of fire, that grasps the land of snow.
About the earth she flings her arms, across the globe doth stride:
Breaks on this eye the Orient beam, on that the Western glow;
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O listen far! O listen wide! thine England speaketh still;
That distant shore, those boundless realms her lordly voice will fill.
On the lips of mighty nations the tones majestic rise,
And English prayer and English praise sound sweet 'neath farthest skies!
That distant shore, those boundless realms her lordly voice will fill.
On the lips of mighty nations the tones majestic rise,
And English prayer and English praise sound sweet 'neath farthest skies!
O shrink not of her plight forlorn to tell the imperial isle!
O sweet to sing her woeful day in this her golden while!
Strike, English bard, thy saddest string! there ringeth forth delight;
Put on thy darkest robes to-day! behold them raiment bright!
O sweet to sing her woeful day in this her golden while!
Strike, English bard, thy saddest string! there ringeth forth delight;
Put on thy darkest robes to-day! behold them raiment bright!
The relics of the saints over which Harold had sworn allegiance to the Norman duke, were in the Norman camp.
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