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HAROLD AND TOSTI.
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Tosti, a son of Earl Godwin, joined Hardrada, king of Norway, in an invasion of England, his native land, and fought against his brother Harold, the last of the Saxon monarchs, at the battle of Stamford-Bridge, September 25th, 1066.
On England's shore, the pirate king
Of Norway's frigid clime,
From thrice a hundred beaked ships,
Debark'd his men of crime;
While at his side the outlaw son
Of proud Earl Godwin came,
And many a child in terror shrank
At dreaded Tosti's name.
Of Norway's frigid clime,
From thrice a hundred beaked ships,
Debark'd his men of crime;
While at his side the outlaw son
Of proud Earl Godwin came,
And many a child in terror shrank
At dreaded Tosti's name.
King Harold led a dauntless host,
For every loyal thane,
Arousing at his country's call,
Convoked a vassal-train;
And while green Autumn robed the vales,
And corn was waving high,
Those vengeful armies frowning met,
Where Derwent murmur'd by.
For every loyal thane,
Arousing at his country's call,
Convoked a vassal-train;
And while green Autumn robed the vales,
And corn was waving high,
Those vengeful armies frowning met,
Where Derwent murmur'd by.
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But England's power, in mass compact,
Was ranged o'er hill and dale,
Solemn, and motionless, and dark,
A mountain clothed in mail.
Then Harold paused a moment's space,
Ere shafts in blood were dyed,
And of Earl Edwin ask'd, who rode
In armour by his side,—
Was ranged o'er hill and dale,
Solemn, and motionless, and dark,
A mountain clothed in mail.
Then Harold paused a moment's space,
Ere shafts in blood were dyed,
And of Earl Edwin ask'd, who rode
In armour by his side,—
“Who wears yon scarf of azure dye,
And helm of burnish'd gold?”
“Hardrada, prince of Norway's realm,
A warrior fierce and bold.”
“And who is he, with towering head,
Majestic, firm, and cool,
Who casts around such eagle-glance,
As he the world would rule?”
And helm of burnish'd gold?”
“Hardrada, prince of Norway's realm,
A warrior fierce and bold.”
“And who is he, with towering head,
Majestic, firm, and cool,
Who casts around such eagle-glance,
As he the world would rule?”
“The rebel of Earl Godwin's line;”
Yet spared the words to speak,
Thy brother, for he saw the blood
Forsake his sovereign's cheek;
And though he rein'd his prancing steed,
His brow was pale as clay,
That brow which ne'er had blanch'd before
In battle's deadliest fray.
Yet spared the words to speak,
Thy brother, for he saw the blood
Forsake his sovereign's cheek;
And though he rein'd his prancing steed,
His brow was pale as clay,
That brow which ne'er had blanch'd before
In battle's deadliest fray.
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Fraternal memories o'er his heart
Like softening waters flow'd,—
The mother's kiss, the mother's prayer,
Alike on both bestow'd.
Then parted from his armed ranks
A knight of noble mien,
And waved a snowy flag of truce
Those frowning hosts between.
Like softening waters flow'd,—
The mother's kiss, the mother's prayer,
Alike on both bestow'd.
Then parted from his armed ranks
A knight of noble mien,
And waved a snowy flag of truce
Those frowning hosts between.
“To Tosti, great Earl Godwin's son,
King Harold bids me say,
Why standst thou on thy native soil
Amid its foes this day?
I yield thee all Northumbria's realm,
The choicest of my land;
Lay down thine arms, disperse thy host,
And clasp a brother's hand.”
King Harold bids me say,
Why standst thou on thy native soil
Amid its foes this day?
I yield thee all Northumbria's realm,
The choicest of my land;
Lay down thine arms, disperse thy host,
And clasp a brother's hand.”
But Tosti turned to Norway's king:
“Behold my friend,” said he;
“What is thy monarch's boon for him
If such his gifts to me?”
“Thus Harold answereth Norway's lord,
Troubler of earth and wave;
Just seven good feet of English soil
I yield thee for a grave.”
“Behold my friend,” said he;
“What is thy monarch's boon for him
If such his gifts to me?”
“Thus Harold answereth Norway's lord,
Troubler of earth and wave;
Just seven good feet of English soil
I yield thee for a grave.”
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Then Tosti shouted, loud and wild,
He smote his buckler proud,
And spears and lances flash'd amain,
Like lightning from the cloud;
And England's mail-clad cavalry
Rush'd on, with direst shock,
As strikes old Ocean's stormy surge
Against the fissured rock.
He smote his buckler proud,
And spears and lances flash'd amain,
Like lightning from the cloud;
And England's mail-clad cavalry
Rush'd on, with direst shock,
As strikes old Ocean's stormy surge
Against the fissured rock.
Then calmly from the English lines
Rode forth a mitred thane,
Wulstan, the bishop, wise and old,
Of Worcester's sacred fane;
Though scarce the impetuous tide of war
Held back its panting wave,
While thus that white-hair'd man of peace
His sovereign's message gave:
Rode forth a mitred thane,
Wulstan, the bishop, wise and old,
Of Worcester's sacred fane;
Though scarce the impetuous tide of war
Held back its panting wave,
While thus that white-hair'd man of peace
His sovereign's message gave:
“Oh, Tosti! by the memory dear
Of boyhood's early trace,
When thou wert victor at the ring,
And foremost in the chase,
And by our parent's blessed love,
That still its vigil kept,
When, cheek to cheek, and heart to heart,
On the same couch we slept;
Of boyhood's early trace,
When thou wert victor at the ring,
And foremost in the chase,
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That still its vigil kept,
When, cheek to cheek, and heart to heart,
On the same couch we slept;
“E'en by the mercies of our Lord,
Who for our sins did die,
Spare the dire waste of blood, and take
A brother's clemency.”
“Speed back, speed back, thou Saxon kern!
And, if thy steed be slow,
The swift-wing'd darts of glorious strife
May chance to lay thee low.”
Who for our sins did die,
Spare the dire waste of blood, and take
A brother's clemency.”
“Speed back, speed back, thou Saxon kern!
And, if thy steed be slow,
The swift-wing'd darts of glorious strife
May chance to lay thee low.”
And with the rebel's echoed ire,
A tide of crimson rolls,
With clang of shield and cloven helm,
And cry of parting souls.
Nor stay'd that deadly passion-strife,
Till o'er the ensanguined plain
The flying Northmen wail'd their kind,
With haughty Tosti slain.
A tide of crimson rolls,
With clang of shield and cloven helm,
And cry of parting souls.
Nor stay'd that deadly passion-strife,
Till o'er the ensanguined plain
The flying Northmen wail'd their kind,
With haughty Tosti slain.
Yet Harold, mid that triumph hour,
His tent in sadness sought,
And deem'd the victory all too dear
A brother's blood had bought:
While, on that field, the bleaching bones
For many a year did tell,
Where Peace the angel strove in vain
The demon War to quell.
His tent in sadness sought,
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A brother's blood had bought:
While, on that field, the bleaching bones
For many a year did tell,
Where Peace the angel strove in vain
The demon War to quell.
Wulstan, the venerable Bishop of Worcester, had previously accompanied King Harold into Northumberland, where a violent insurrection was quelled, without an appeal to the sword, by the influence of his eloquence and piety. He was one of the most revered of the prelates, whom the early Saxon chroniclers were accustomed to designate as mass-thanes, to distinguish them from the barons, or world-thanes.
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