A Metrical History of England Or, Recollections, in Rhyme, Of some of the most prominent Features in our National Chronology, from the Landing of Julius Caesar to the Commencement of the Regency, in 1812. In Two Volumes ... By Thomas Dibdin |
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A Metrical History of England | ||
3. PART THE THIRD.
From Edward the Martyr to the Norman Conquest.
CONTENTS.
Edward the Martyr—Ethelred the Unready—Edmund Ironside. Danish Sovereigns: Canute the Great—Harold Harefoot— Hardicanute—Edward the Confessor—Harold—Landing of William of Normandy—Conquest of England.
“Unhousell'd, unannointed, unanneal'd,
“No reck'ning made, but sent to my account,
“With all my imperfections on my head.”
“How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me;
“I wou'd, while it was smiling in my face,
“Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
“And dash'd the brains out.”
EDWARD THE MARTYR.
Where “foul deeds rise” in midnight gloom,
To haunt guilt's wakeful, ling'ring hours,
And warn the murd'rer of his doom;
And sable plumed assassins wait,
Where malice, deck'd in monkish pride,
Allures some victim to her fate;
Enthusiastic, madly bold—
Much aid my muse may well require,
For fell a tale as e'er was told.
Thy fiend-like outline dar'd to shew,
This all enlighten'd critic age
Had damn'd the lines that drew thee so!
My feeble pen may ill beseem,
Your patience I shall boldly ask,
While I attempt, to tell a Dream.
Attract the passing trav'ler's eye,
Recal the scene of former reigns,
And tell of ages long gone by;
I woo'd repose; old Somnus smiled,
The gale through moss clad fragments sung,
And fancy thus my sense beguil'd:
The barren heath grew dark, and wide, and drear,
For shelter scarce a trembling leaf was seen,
And direst noises mock'd th' uncertain ear!
Of Evil Spirits, high in air,
Mix'd with the winds, now, like the knell
From some deep toned sepulchral bell,
Or, as the ling'ring groan of sad despair,
Upon the terror stricken heart it fell,
Yet, what these sounds might bode no living man could tell.
Ne'er from such angry clouds did torrents pour,
Ne'er did such light'ning paralize the eye,
Nor ever thunder burst with such indignant roar.
Might well the stoutest, firmest, heart subdue,
Convert the soul of manhood to a child,
And with big drops the forehead pale bedew.
While sulph'rous flashes breaking o'er the scene
Made “darkness visible,” my startled sight
Beheld a female of majestic mien.
Confined, a diadem her temple bound,
'Twas more than terrible to hear her wail,
Cold ran my heart's-blood at the mournful sound!
The breast she beat gave back a hollow groan;
“Guilty Elfrida!” echo made reply,
And nature shook with horrors not her own.
(So fancy whisper'd to my fear-struck mind)
Who, nightly thus compell'd, confession made,
Yet from confession no relief might find.
“Thou worst of evils, cause of all my woe,
“Not less corrosive thy detested flame
“Than fires that scorch my guilty heart below!
“Opposed me to protect my hapless son,
“That son who should have been a mother's care,
“Became her hate, and we were both undone.
“My royal name in disrepute to bring;
“'Twas thirst of pow'r the daring Churchman fir'd,
“I wish'd to rule a State, he ruled a King.
“Beloved by most, but least beloved by me,
“His virtue my too vicious aims restrain'd,
“Who from restraint determined to be free.
“Who drove with “hound and horn” the game,
“His train outstript, he came to pay
“His duty to a parent's name.
“A heart to shew depraved as this!
“Judas! my guilt is next to thine,
“Betraying heaven with a kiss.
“With manly beauty deck'd his brow,
“And locks in glossy ringlets twined
“Might charm a vestal from her vow.
“Yet cou'd not these my bosom sway,
“I nerved the shrinking ruffian's arm
“His monarch and my son to slay.
“Once 'ope the hospitable door
“The cup a pledge of faith they know,
“They drink, and then are foes no more.
“In the deceitful cup I gave,
“Forgot my son, my sov'reign's claim,
“And plung'd him in an early grave,
“(That day of most atrocious guilt!)
“Which shou'd have been eclips'd in night,
“Or redden'd like the blood I spilt.
“He took, and rais'd to drink, when lo!
“A minion of my savage band
“Struck deep the unexpected blow.
“And from me as he urged his way,
“His parting glance the dreadful deed
“Began already to repay.
“Vainly on absent friends he calls,
“In faint contention with his pains,
“Helpless, the martyr'd Edward falls.
“O'er rudest roads and ways uneven,
“He finds, while losing life and strength,
“A sharp and thorny path to heaven.
“To wretches, pure, compared with me?
“Though plung'd in hell, my crime unhid
“And unatoned must ever be.
“Founded, to compromise the deed,
“My form must nightly now repair,
“Again to see my Edward bleed.
“And downcast eye, my arms I cross'd,
“I'm doom'd in genuine woe to feel
“The blood I shed, the heaven I lost!
“Unlike each sound of mortal ken,
“Warns me no more to linger here,
“But hence, and count my crimes again.”
The spectre fled, the charm was broke,
And (haply you may be the same),
Right glad was I when I awoke.
Dunstan sided with (not from loyalty, but because he governed) the King, and opposed the unnatural and ambitious views of Elfrida, whose party was strong and headed by the Earl of Mercia.
Edward was canonized soon after, and ranked among the martyrs; because he had defended the cause of the monks, ejected the secular clergy from their bcnefices, and made Dunstan archbishop of Canterbury. Lockman.
Shakespeare.
St. Dunstan's Declaration at the Baptism of this Prince.
“Il paroit Maitre de tout les autres Hommes: Mais il n'est pas Maitre de lui meme.
On Voyoit plusieurs de ces Rois severement punis, non pour les Maux qu'ils avoient faits, mais pour avoir neglige le biens quils auroient du faire.”
Fenelon.ETHELRED THE UNREADY.
Little recorded in this reign we findBut cowardice and cruelty combined;
Denmark again her warlike fortune tries,
And the “Norweyan banner flouts the skies;”
The fearful King pays tribute to the Dane,
Who partially retires; those who remain
In treacherous massacre are basely slain.
A full revenge th' unkingly act succeeds,
And England in her every province bleeds;
Prelates and Nobles in the ruin share,
Nor sex nor age, the northern ruffians spare:
Nor quit us but to menace swift return.
With Danish Olave came ambitious Sweyn,
Who here obtained a momentary reign;
And fell, as Dunstan's tonsured tribe advance,
By spectred Edmund's visionary lance;
Canute, too, vainly hail'd our Albion's Lord,
Sees Ethelred by Londoners restored;
While gallant Edmund flies to aid his sire,
And wake within his breast a noble fire;
In vain the pious son his King wou'd save,
Untaught by ills, to every vice a slave,
The Monarch sinks to an inglorious grave.
The Monks reported that the spectre of Edmund, King of East Anglia, whose remains Sweyn had disturbed by laying the Abbey of Bury under military execution, fought under Duntan's banner.
Shakespeare.
“To throw the lance and drive the car,
“Taught the bold warrior how to die,
“And bade the vanquish'd scorn to fly.
“And valour's self, to roam no more,
“Has come to Albion's white cliff'd shore.”
Leigh Hunt.
EDMUND IRONSIDE.
Tho' famed for valour, worth, and truth;
Thine unsuspicious soul ne'er thought,
Man's honour could be sold or bought.
And, trusting Edric's hollow guile,
Edric, by stratagem most vile,
Caus'd thine embattled ranks to fly.
Which taught Canute to shrink from harm;
And rather England's rule divide
Than thy fierce prowess more abide:
At Athelney, where single fight,
Was arbiter of double right.
Thy life immortal fame has won;
Thy cruel death in endless shame
Involves a hated traitor's name:
For not a year thy reign had known,
'Ere murder mark'd thee for his own.
Edric, cursed Edric closed thine eyes,
And carried to Canute as prize
Advancement o'er the Peerage of the land.
And placed the traitor's head high o'er the regal town.
So the Amalekite, who Saul had slain,
Aspired from David rich reward to gain.
So they who slew the King of Israel's Son,
And deem'd the Royal Psalmist's favour won,
Found retribution: such just guerdon be,
In ev'ry age, the Meed of Treachery!
Edric, observing the Danes gave ground, raised the bleeding head of a soldier on the point of a spear, and cried aloud, “Haro, Haro, flee Englonde! dead is Edmunde!” He afterwards betrayed Edmund at the battle of Asandone, or Ashdon, in Essex.
Edmund perceiving Canute at the head of his forces, rode off from his own, and Canute advancing, a furious combat ensued, in which neither having much advantage, they agreed to divide the kingdom. The author of the Medulla Historiæ Anglicanæ, says, Canute was wounded and first proposed forbearance.
DANISH SOVEREIGNS.
Shakespeare.
“When Canute the King was passing by;
“‘Row to the shore, Knights,’ said the King,
“‘And let us hear these Churchmen sing.’”
Written by Canute.—Vide Sturt.
CANUTE THE GREAT.
Britons are now sole “liegemen to the Dane;”
Who, less by right than power of the sword,
Of England, Denmark, Norway, is the Lord.
Hence, servile courtiers as they bent the knee,
Hail'd him great master of the land and sea;
His better feeling courts th' unconscious waves,
To roll reproof around his cringing slaves.
From their inheritance to banishment;
Seek Sweden's aid in vain, and, after, found,
A kind asylum on Hungarian ground.
And Dane and Englishman in turn presides;
Olaus, of Norway, next his arms subdue,
And Scottish Malcolm pays the tribute due.
A splendid pilgrimage to Rome he takes,
And needless homage to the Pontiff makes.
Rebuilt the Abbey, which his sire destroy'd
At Bury, hence new wealth the Monks enjoyed.
To appease Old Edgar Ath'ling's spirit, who,
So legends tell, Canute's great father slew.
As (Pallas taught) Idomeneus of Crete
Gave to the useful arts protection meet;
Some wholsome laws the British Monarch made,
Encouraged genius, and assisted trade.
It has been said, that, “Like Augustus, he
“Shou'd never have been born.” We also see
In the same sentence it has been replied,
That, “being born, he never shou'd have died.”
Unjustly tho' the English crown he gain'd,
Few subjects of his Government complain'd;
Who, finally, to all his people proved
A Sovereign respected, and beloved.
A. D. 1036. A tribute levied by the Danish invaders on the English, in arrear for several preceding reigns, and called Danegelt.
Voltaire.
“Les peuples abusés m'ont cru le défenseur,
“De quinze ans de travaux j'ai perdu tout le fruit.
“Croi moi, ces préjugés de sang et de naissance
“Revivront dans les cœurs, y prendront sa defense.”
Ibidem.
HAROLD HAREFOOT.
Hardicanute his father should succeed;
But absence seldom helps the claim of right,
And Harold, in fraternal honour's spite,
Usurp'd the Crown.—His reign was short, and these,
Some of his acts, are little fram'd to please;
Mixture of insignificance and pride,
(Proud to love walking better than to ride. )
And caus'd the blood of Alfred to be spilt.
Alfred, (of Edmund Ironside the Son,)
Who cross'd the seas, by Harold's treachery won.
Which but repeat a catalogue of crimes;
But faithful narrative must be content
With fact, nor seek for bland embellishment.
Else had some episode or harmless joke
Your present comfortable slumbers broke.
Edward, the brother of the Prince who fell,
Escap'd the snare, and 'twill be ours to tell
Hereafter of his fate; it now remains,
That Hardic'nute a pow'rful army gains,
Against King Harold to assert his right;
But, while the doubtful issue of the fight
Depends, the reigning Monarch yields his breath,
And civil strife is ended by his death.
Where many a bark now moulders in the sand;
First flourish'd in this reign, and by his aid,
The selfish King his brother's right betray'd.
Shakespeare.
“In my voluptuousness.
Ibid.
HARDICANUTE.
Hardy in form, but imbecile in mind;
Two years (too long) he reign'd, when at a feast
The tyrant died, as he had lived, a beast.
A surfeit stopp'd the sensual Caitiff's breath,
And merry England celebrates his death.
Hogstide the anniversary they call
Of that good day which saw the glutton fall.
During his life, his brother from the grave
He dragg'd, and gave his body to the wave;
The wave rejects it, and fraternal crime,
Disturbs the hapless corse a second time.
Earl Godwin joins with sacrilegious hand,
To hurl dead Harold from the shelt'ring land.
To answer for young Alfred's timeless fall;
With venal off'ring of a splendid barge
Buys from the shameless King his crime's discharge.
Whose 'plaints are answer'd but with sword and fire;
In fine, tho' brief, from crime this reign appears
In two-and-twenty lines as many years.
None of the names of these tools of a tyrant's caprice have escaped posterity. The diggers up of Harold are known to have been—Alfric, Archbishop of York; Earl Godwin; Styr, the steward; Edric, the sewer; and Troudle, the executioner. J. P. Andrews.
THE SAXON LINE RESTORED.
“Himself best knows, but strangely visited people,
“The mere despair of surgery, he cures,
“Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,
“Put on with holy pray'rs:—With this strange virtue,
“He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;
“And sundry blessings hang about his throne
“That speak him full of grace.”
Shakespeare.
EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.
Our Bard immortal speaks of, is not our's
To canvass.—'Tis our province to set down
Sans comment, what, it was supposed the Crown
Did, or had pow'r to do.—Of Danegelt eas'd,
The subjects with the sovereign were pleas'd;
And gave him equally deserv'd applause,
For well digested and impartial laws.
Why trickles that reluctant tear
From chiefs who pass in order by,
What sounds of woe salute the ear?
Which marks the step of yonder band
Proclaim that Scotia's legal throne
Is stain'd by an usurper's hand.
And Siward leads a valiant train;
Who, by the tyrant undismay'd,
Replace the son of Duncan slain.
To touch each chord that thrills the heart;
Then let his magic numbers tell
Of murd'rous guile and fiend-like art.
The “unsex'd” wife of Glamis' Thane,
Whose trait'rous hand his master slew,
And earn'd a transitory reign.
This moral he can only shew,
That crowns are but uncertain things,
And, (or in Subjects, or in Kings,)
Error must surely end in woe.
With little trouble, in this reign, we seek;
His breast was coldly fraught with filial love,
Who cou'd, remorseless, cause his mother prove
The fire ordeal. Next, for having wed
A child of one he had good cause to dread;
The coward Prince revenged upon the dame
That hate he dared not for her sire proclaim.
Of worthier men, “saucy and over bold”
In state affairs.—Revengeful, cruel, proud,
When least he deem'd—to fate's stern summons bow'd.
'Tis said denial of Prince Alfred's death
By his connivance, stopt the murd'rer's breath.
The regal chair to Norman William's line;
But, while deliberation held the beam,
The king of terrors closed each worldly dream;
Harold, Earl Godwin's son, assumed the sway,
With what success a future page must say.
Legends report that Godwin was supernaturally suffocated, immediately subsequent to a solemn declaration of his innocence respecting the Prince's murder.
“Help'd the Normans to beat,
“Of traitors they managed to buy land;
“Pict, Saxon, or Dane,
“Had assail'd us in vain,
“While true to the king of the island.
“Brave Harold fought hard for the island,
“He lost both his life and the island;
“And the records of fame
`Shall add to his name,
“Like a Briton he died for his island.”
T. Dibdin's Songs.
HAROLD THE SECOND.
How brief the honours of this short liv'd reign.
Crowns take some value from a nation's voice,
And Harold was, 'tis said, the people's choice:
Harold, (the son of Godwin,) who proclaim'd
That he by Edward was successor named;
William, the Duke of Normandy, declares,
The same pretence; and these two self-named heirs,
Alike, rejecting each the other's word,
Refer decision to the sharpest sword;
Mean time, as oft the muse of hist'ry sings,
The subjects suffer for contending Kings.
With Norway's chief, and Harold's brother made
A league that they should first the isle invade;
Their early efforts with success were crown'd,
And British men gave way on British ground.
Northumberland and Mercia's Earls were beat,
But Harold's arm so well that loss redeem'd
That neither of his foes surviv'd defeat.
And victory in mercy's smile was drest,
The last, last time she beam'd,
On hapless Harold's crest.
To Norway's son the King allow'd retreat,
And greatly gave him back his father's captive fleet.
Reflected by the glassy tide,
Where chiefs in arms refulgent ride,
Our fears exciting?
Near, and more near, they make the land!
And who their prowess shall withstand,
For England fighting?
Where Baieux' Bishop proudly drest,
Blesses the crew with hands unblest,
To blood inviting!
His troops the omen not appals;
Turf, and the cotter's thatch, his warriors bring,
As seizen of the soil, and hail the invader, King.
Marshals yon troop of bowmen bold,
Who land in numbers yet untold,
Each other chearing?
Of troops he leads from Acquitain,
Each knight of whom some peer has slain,
No foeman fearing.
Fitz-Osborn's shrill-toned clarion charms,
While every echoing blast alarms
Our startled hearing.
Beneath their frowning banners move along,
The shore resounds with Rollo's martial song.
(The noblest warriors from the Norman coast)
D'Evreux, Fitz-Richard, with that chieftain famed,
Charles Martel, and (too num'rous to be named)
Longueville, De Thours, Grantmesnil, and Mortaigne,
De Estaples, Warrean, Giffard, and a train,
With Eustace de Boulogne of men renowned.
And, hark again the drum, and hark the trumpet's sound!
Forward they march, and now, from William sent,
A Norman herald seeks the royal tent;
There fiercely throws his master's gauntlet down,
Who proffers single combat for the crown.
Harold with stern disdain the pledge denies,
And on his people's love, and heav'n's high aid, relies.
Expectant of the fight,
Did Britons pass the night
In song unseemly and carousal gay?
While to the sacred pow'r that rules the skies,
Unnumber'd Norman prayers and praises rise.
Brays bold defiance—who can tell
What numbers in its dreadful note
Have heard their dying knell?
But from a thousand chosen knights
The Norman bowstring's fatal twang
Echoed by groans responsive rang.
Not there with simultaneous sound
The well-timed musquetry is found;
But on the glitt'ring ranks,
On iron helms the falling iron clanks,
And cleaves through shiver'd mail with dreadful wound.
The British bayonet the palm obtains;
And bear to earth who bears th' opposing shield.
And Harold's valour almost claims the day.
Three foaming coursers under William slain
Add blood to blood on the ensanguined plain:
The Duke undaunted, “dares again the field,”
The dauntless monarch scorns alike to yield;
His loyal soldiers gallantly contend,
While Norman hopes of conquest nearly end;
The Kentish phalanx ev'ry onset dares,
And fierce invasion pauses and despairs.
Too oft thy keen-brain'd cunning foils the brave;
Too oft his living laurels charm the crowd,
Who vanquish'd, but for thee, had found a grave.
Alternately our hopes and fears divide:
While justice seems a moment to prevail,
See fortune turn, by artifice, the tide.
The English follow to unlook'd defeat;
For suddenly the wily band returns,
The fray renew'd with ten-fold fury burns.
Again the spear, the battle-axe, the bow,
Destroy the van, and lay the distant low!
The British, late of victory secure,
Outwitted thus, the contest scarce endure.
Proudly superior to thy savage fate;
Once, twice, and thrice, from rank to rank he flew,
Once, twice, and thrice, his ranks the fight renew.
Again he leads 'em with resistless rage,
Again a fruitless war the Normans wage;
Another onset ends the doubtful strife,
He leads, he falls, and loses but his life!
His crown he never lost, who, unsurpast,
Maintain'd it like a Briton, to the last.
While hand to hand death threaten'd him in vain,
The shaft accurs'd that pierc'd his royal brain
Left William less a victor than the slain.
The fatal string, and such an hero slew.
Two gallant brothers fighting by his side,
Thousands of faithful hearts, their leader's pride,
His patriot laurels with his fate divide.
But justly celebrate the glorious men;
The Poet's lay a deathless fame shou'd raise,
And deeds immortal meet immortal praise.
A Metrical History of England | ||