A Metrical History of England :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Dibdin, Thomas (1771-1841)

COURTSHIP of the CANAILLE.

KINGDOM OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

THE KINGDOM OF EAST-ANGLIA.

THE KINGDOM OF MERCIA.

THE KINGDOM OF ESSEX,

THE KINGDOM OF SUSSEX,

THE KINGDOM OF WESSEX,

PART THE THIRD.

ETHELRED THE UNREADY.

[section]

EDMUND IRONSIDE.

DANISH SOVEREIGNS.

THE SAXON LINE RESTORED.

II.

RICHARD III. surnamed CROOKBACK.

10.

11.

12.

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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.

“Cut off even in the blossom of my sin,
“Unhousell'd, unannointed, unanneal'd,
“No reck'ning made, but sent to my account,
“With all my imperfections on my head.”

“I have given suck, and know
“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.”

Shakespeare.

EDWARD THE MARTYR.

From Radcliffe's ivy mantled towers,
Where “foul deeds rise” in midnight gloom,
To haunt guilt's wakeful, ling'ring hours,
And warn the murd'rer of his doom;

Lewis! from where thy spectres glide,
And sable plumed assassins wait,
Where malice, deck'd in monkish pride,
Allures some victim to her fate;

From, Fuseli! thy touch of fire,
Enthusiastic, madly bold—
Much aid my muse may well require,
For fell a tale as e'er was told.

Elfrida! had wild fiction's page
Thy fiend-like outline dar'd to shew,
This all enlighten'd critic age
Had damn'd the lines that drew thee so!

Reader! howe'er the hardy task
My feeble pen may ill beseem,
Your patience I shall boldly ask,
While I attempt, to tell a Dream.

Where mould'ring Corfe's antique remains
Attract the passing trav'ler's eye,
Recal the scene of former reigns,
And tell of ages long gone by;

With toil and thought my nerves unstrung,
I woo'd repose; old Somnus smiled,
The gale through moss clad fragments sung,
And fancy thus my sense beguil'd:

Methought the blast grew loud, and long, and keen,
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!

And now it seem'd as if the yell
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 did such fearful torrents leave the sky,
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.

An hour so dread, a desert place so wild,
Might well the stoutest, firmest, heart subdue,
Convert the soul of manhood to a child,
And with big drops the forehead pale bedew.

Amid the countless wonders of the night,
While sulph'rous flashes breaking o'er the scene
Made “darkness visible,” my startled sight
Beheld a female of majestic mien.

Dark were her tresses which a blood-stained veil
Confined, a diadem her temple bound,
'Twas more than terrible to hear her wail,
Cold ran my heart's-blood at the mournful sound!

“Guilty Elfrida!” was her ceaseless cry,
The breast she beat gave back a hollow groan;
“Guilty Elfrida!” echo made reply,
And nature shook with horrors not her own.

Of martyr'd Edward's step-dame 'twas the shade,
(So fancy whisper'd to my fear-struck mind)
Who, nightly thus compell'd, confession made,
Yet from confession no relief might find.

“Ambition!” shriek'd the form, “thou hateful name,
“Thou worst of evils, cause of all my woe,
“Not less corrosive thy detested flame
“Than fires that scorch my guilty heart below!

“Sage Peers, of my aspiring hopes aware,
“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.

“Dunstan, that sainted hypocrite, conspir'd
“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.

“Four years my death-devoted step-son reign'd,
“Beloved by most, but least beloved by me,
“His virtue my too vicious aims restrain'd,
“Who from restraint determined to be free.

“Foremost of Cavaliers so gay
“Who drove with “hound and horn” the game,
“His train outstript, he came to pay
“His duty to a parent's name.

“Oh, then! what tortures equal mine
“A heart to shew depraved as this!
“Judas! my guilt is next to thine,
“Betraying heaven with a kiss.

“Youth, health, and exercise combined
“With manly beauty deck'd his brow,
“And locks in glossy ringlets twined
“Might charm a vestal from her vow.

100

“Yet could not these my heart disarm,
“Yet cou'd not these my bosom sway,
“I nerved the shrinking ruffian's arm
“His monarch and my son to slay.

“Should Infidels to direst foe
“Once 'ope the hospitable door
“The cup a pledge of faith they know,
“They drink, and then are foes no more.

“But I who stain'd a Christian name,
“In the deceitful cup I gave,
“Forgot my son, my sov'reign's claim,
“And plung'd him in an early grave,

“Yet on that day the sun shone bright,
“(That day of most atrocious guilt!)
“Which shou'd have been eclips'd in night,
“Or redden'd like the blood I spilt.

“The sparkling bev'rage from this hand
“He took, and rais'd to drink, when lo!
“A minion of my savage band
“Struck deep the unexpected blow.

101

“Struggling with death, he turn'd his steed,
“And from me as he urged his way,
“His parting glance the dreadful deed
“Began already to repay.

“Not long his hand the curb retains,
“Vainly on absent friends he calls,
“In faint contention with his pains,
“Helpless, the martyr'd Edward falls.

“Dragg'd by his courser's speed at length
“O'er rudest roads and ways uneven,
“He finds, while losing life and strength,
“A sharp and thorny path to heaven.

“And dare I name that place, forbid
“To wretches, pure, compared with me?
“Though plung'd in hell, my crime unhid
“And unatoned must ever be.

“To ev'ry pile my selfish care
“Founded, to compromise the deed,
“My form must nightly now repair,
“Again to see my Edward bleed.

102

“And where, with mock religious zeal,
“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!

“And hark! a summons deep and drear,
“Unlike each sound of mortal ken,
“Warns me no more to linger here,
“But hence, and count my crimes again.”

And deep and drear the summons came,
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.

The monasteries of Amesbury, Worwell, &c.

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.

104

“As tedious as a King.”
Shakespeare.

“This Boy will turn out a Poltroon and a Coward.”
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 find
But 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:

105

Our seats of learning and its stores they burn,
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.

107

“Bellona's bridegroom.”
Shakespeare.

“'Twas valour taught the art of war,
“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.

“We fought with swords! a brave man shrinks not at death! from my early youth I have learn'd to dye the steel of my lance in blood.” Mallet's Northern Antiquities.

“How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!” 2 Samuel, chap. i.

EDMUND IRONSIDE.

Short was thy reign, thou gallant youth!
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,

108

In Sherstan's fight, with artful lie,
Caus'd thine embattled ranks to fly.

Yet keen thy sword, and strong thine arm,
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.

Edmund, tho' soon thy race was run,
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

109

Thy bleeding corse, requiring at his hand,
Advancement o'er the Peerage of the land.

Th' indignant King assented with a frown,
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.

110

DANISH SOVEREIGNS.

111

“A little flattery sometimes does well.”
Shakespeare.

“Ely's Monks sang cheerfully,
“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.

Edmund by Edric thus unjustly slain,
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.

The Sons of Edmund most unjustly sent
From their inheritance to banishment;
Seek Sweden's aid in vain, and, after, found,
A kind asylum on Hungarian ground.

112

Canute in four the British state divides,
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.

The story of Canute's reproof of his flatterers, is too generally known to need insertion here.

A. D. 1036. A tribute levied by the Danish invaders on the English, in arrear for several preceding reigns, and called Danegelt.

Vide the reign of Ethelred the Second, page 105.

114

“Nought hath he done for us and nought deserved.”
Voltaire.

“En vain, du sang des Rois, dont je suis l'oppresseur,
“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.

“In vain have I oppressed the blood of Kings, whilst the deluded people adored me as their friend, if yet there lives a hateful offspring, all the prejudice of birth and blood revives.” Smollet's Voltaire.

HAROLD HAREFOOT.

By mutual accord, it was decreed,
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. )

115

To narrowness of soul he added guilt,
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.

Well may my reader tire of tasteless rhymes,
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.

Earl Godwin, lord of the once fertile land
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.

Hence his surname of Harefoot.

117

“They call me a foul-feeder.”
Shakespeare.

“There's no bottom, none
“In my voluptuousness.
Ibid.

HARDICANUTE.

To each unprincely appetite inclined,
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.

118

Godwin, who, when Prince Edward dares to call,
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.

The Danegelt next provokes the subjects' ire,
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.

119

THE SAXON LINE RESTORED.

120

“How he solicits Heaven
“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.

Whether King Edward own'd the powers
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.

What sad procession meets the eye?
Why trickles that reluctant tear
From chiefs who pass in order by,
What sounds of woe salute the ear?

121

The solemn Pibrochs mournful tone
Which marks the step of yonder band
Proclaim that Scotia's legal throne
Is stain'd by an usurper's hand.

And Edward lends his ready aid,
And Siward leads a valiant train;
Who, by the tyrant undismay'd,
Replace the son of Duncan slain.

The swan of Avon knew full well
To touch each chord that thrills the heart;
Then let his magic numbers tell
Of murd'rous guile and fiend-like art.

The blasted heath, the wizard crew,
The “unsex'd” wife of Glamis' Thane,
Whose trait'rous hand his master slew,
And earn'd a transitory reign.

Whate'er his skill, who says or sings,
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.

122

For proofs that mortal saints are sometimes weak,
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.

Godwin, ambition's child, the scourge we're told
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.

'Twas Edward's wish, when dying, to resign
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.

124

“'Twas party deceit,
“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.

The truth demands, yet we record with pain,
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.

125

William 'ere yet his fortune he essayed,
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.

But whose the ships afar descried,
Reflected by the glassy tide,
Where chiefs in arms refulgent ride,
Our fears exciting?

'Tis Norman William and his band,
Near, and more near, they make the land!
And who their prowess shall withstand,
For England fighting?

126

Mark! high exalted o'er the rest,
Where Baieux' Bishop proudly drest,
Blesses the crew with hands unblest,
To blood inviting!

They land! To earth see mail-clad William falls,
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.

What knight, in breast-plate wrought with gold,
Marshals yon troop of bowmen bold,
Who land in numbers yet untold,
Each other chearing?

'Tis Aimar, with good reason vain
Of troops he leads from Acquitain,
Each knight of whom some peer has slain,
No foeman fearing.

And there, a thousand men at arms
Fitz-Osborn's shrill-toned clarion charms,
While every echoing blast alarms
Our startled hearing.

127

The deep drum rolls, and, as the threat'ning throng,
Beneath their frowning banners move along,
The shore resounds with Rollo's martial song.

De Beaumont, Lacy, Pevrel, each an host,
(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.

128

Yet why before the arbitrative day,
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.

'Tis dawn!—'Tis day! once more the trumpet's throat
Brays bold defiance—who can tell
What numbers in its dreadful note
Have heard their dying knell?

No thund'ring cannon here the field affrights,
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.

Not there, as late on Maida's plains,
The British bayonet the palm obtains;

129

But sturdy pikemen pierce th' embattled field,
And bear to earth who bears th' opposing shield.

The English bill, dread weapon, hews it way,
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.

O, stratagem! in war, as love, allow'd,
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.

While fortune, and while justice in the scale,
Alternately our hopes and fears divide:
While justice seems a moment to prevail,
See fortune turn, by artifice, the tide.

130

The foe before the English force retreat,
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.

But Harold, Harold, now supremely great,
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.

131

Ill-fame betide the coward hand that drew
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.

Peace to their manes! cou'd th' unequal pen
But justly celebrate the glorious men;
The Poet's lay a deathless fame shou'd raise,
And deeds immortal meet immortal praise.

Gurth and Leofwin.

END OF PART THE THIRD.