 | England |  |
133
KING HAROLD. A.D. 1050.
Old men had many bodings—but—I saw
Reckless King Harold in his plumed helm,
Ride foremost of the mailed chivalry. [OMITTED]
But who would not a crown resign,
Harold, for a rest like thine.
—Bowles's Grave of the last Saxons.
Reckless King Harold in his plumed helm,
Ride foremost of the mailed chivalry. [OMITTED]
But who would not a crown resign,
Harold, for a rest like thine.
—Bowles's Grave of the last Saxons.
The mighty Saxon Kings are dead—the power,
So strong in Alfred—(who upheld their land
And bore its fortunes in most evil hour)
The hair that gloss'd the sunbeams—the right hand
So giant-like in battle and command—
The blue eye, like their heavens—the steady feet,
Strong as their rocks—are past and o'er: the wand
Of time hath touch'd them, and they slumber sweet,
Where comes nor winter tempests, nor the summer heat.
So strong in Alfred—(who upheld their land
And bore its fortunes in most evil hour)
The hair that gloss'd the sunbeams—the right hand
So giant-like in battle and command—
The blue eye, like their heavens—the steady feet,
Strong as their rocks—are past and o'er: the wand
Of time hath touch'd them, and they slumber sweet,
Where comes nor winter tempests, nor the summer heat.
Once they held mighty empire, and were great;
The deserts shook beneath them, and their might
Was felt above their mountains craggy height:
And they had glorious chace and glorious fight,
Or love that murmur'd 'mid their bowers bright:
Eye, ear, and touch—the will, the power, and thought;
The blood roll'd quick; the feelings mov'd in light;
Nature to them her influences brought;
Yea, even like us they were—these kings—and now are nought.
The deserts shook beneath them, and their might
Was felt above their mountains craggy height:
And they had glorious chace and glorious fight,
Or love that murmur'd 'mid their bowers bright:
Eye, ear, and touch—the will, the power, and thought;
The blood roll'd quick; the feelings mov'd in light;
Nature to them her influences brought;
Yea, even like us they were—these kings—and now are nought.
134
Their names but live upon the empty air;
And transitory as a falling star,
Or meteor, that one moment shineth fair,
And then is lost amid the abysm far.
They liv'd, and they are dead: they felt the jar
Or euphony of life: and now, alas,
Their very dust is gone, and Time's rude war
Revels within their eyeballs; where the grass
And freshest flowerets bloom'd, a thousand seasons pass.
And transitory as a falling star,
Or meteor, that one moment shineth fair,
And then is lost amid the abysm far.
They liv'd, and they are dead: they felt the jar
Or euphony of life: and now, alas,
Their very dust is gone, and Time's rude war
Revels within their eyeballs; where the grass
And freshest flowerets bloom'd, a thousand seasons pass.
The monuments that loving subjects rear'd
Are crumbled down; nor know we where they stood:
The yew-tree all is gone—its branches sear'd
To dust: the very sun and moon that woo'd
The grass and tombstone, are with change embued.
Myriads of times the circling earth hath run,
And shook their corpses, and their congeal'd blood,
Since they and Death were married, one and one,
Since the old Saxon kings unto the grave were won.
Are crumbled down; nor know we where they stood:
The yew-tree all is gone—its branches sear'd
To dust: the very sun and moon that woo'd
The grass and tombstone, are with change embued.
Myriads of times the circling earth hath run,
And shook their corpses, and their congeal'd blood,
Since they and Death were married, one and one,
Since the old Saxon kings unto the grave were won.
The last—the last of the proud Saxon race!—
His heart was high and brave—his soul was pure,
And kingly greatness sat upon his face:
No storm or peril fear'd he to endure:
The joy of bathe was his chiefest lure:
And of his people's love, who lov'd him well,
And of their homage, he was ever sure:—
And he lov'd them—they at his heart did dwell—
Their noblest, latest king—all England sung his knell.
His heart was high and brave—his soul was pure,
And kingly greatness sat upon his face:
No storm or peril fear'd he to endure:
The joy of bathe was his chiefest lure:
And of his people's love, who lov'd him well,
And of their homage, he was ever sure:—
And he lov'd them—they at his heart did dwell—
Their noblest, latest king—all England sung his knell.
135
Lo, 'mid the solemn wood there is a tower!
The moon shines o'er its ivy in the night;
The low winds greet it from their secret bower.
King Harold walks the battlements: his sight
Beholds a hundred kings array'd in fight,
Each with a golden crown upon his head;
And now along the heavens red swords shine bright;
He hears the furious war-steed's sounding tread—
And, now,—lo! only one remains—the rest are dead!
The moon shines o'er its ivy in the night;
The low winds greet it from their secret bower.
King Harold walks the battlements: his sight
Beholds a hundred kings array'd in fight,
Each with a golden crown upon his head;
And now along the heavens red swords shine bright;
He hears the furious war-steed's sounding tread—
And, now,—lo! only one remains—the rest are dead!
Again, and where the thickest spears beam out,
And where the twanging arrows glitter most,
The Saxon monarch answers the wild shout,
And, like a demon, breasts the invading host.
“On, on, my noble hearts, or all is lost—
“On, on, brave Englishmen, 'tis ours the day—
“On, on,—this day shall be our dying boast.”
As a fierce river did they roll away,
Like hungry mountain-wolves, that chace their panting prey.
And where the twanging arrows glitter most,
The Saxon monarch answers the wild shout,
And, like a demon, breasts the invading host.
“On, on, my noble hearts, or all is lost—
“On, on, brave Englishmen, 'tis ours the day—
“On, on,—this day shall be our dying boast.”
As a fierce river did they roll away,
Like hungry mountain-wolves, that chace their panting prey.
Again, and 'mid a lonely forest's gloom,
Where gleam'd a poor hut in the forest shade,
A stately shape moves slow, as though the tomb
Had let him out—he is so cold and staid.
His hair floats wild—his robes all disarray'd—
His hands are folded on the ample breast:
His eyes are on the ground, as seeking aid;
Heedless of all things, nought can win to rest
The solemn steady woe, with which he is opprest.
Where gleam'd a poor hut in the forest shade,
A stately shape moves slow, as though the tomb
Had let him out—he is so cold and staid.
His hair floats wild—his robes all disarray'd—
His hands are folded on the ample breast:
His eyes are on the ground, as seeking aid;
Heedless of all things, nought can win to rest
The solemn steady woe, with which he is opprest.
136
Again, and forty years have slumber'd o'er,
A Norman robber reigns, anointed king;
And Saxon footsteps tread the Norman shore.
Again red battle waves his burning wing,
The loud drum roars, and the clear trumpets ring:
Death laughs for joy—the English hosts retire.
But who is he, that strange and mighty thing,
Who bears the conqueror back with look of fire?
'Twas Harold,—thus he died, reveng'd—his sole desire.
A Norman robber reigns, anointed king;
And Saxon footsteps tread the Norman shore.
Again red battle waves his burning wing,
The loud drum roars, and the clear trumpets ring:
Death laughs for joy—the English hosts retire.
But who is he, that strange and mighty thing,
Who bears the conqueror back with look of fire?
'Twas Harold,—thus he died, reveng'd—his sole desire.
Again, again with Harold, and no more,
A black steed moves along by soldiers led,
His gallant rider gone, he lov'd of yore:
Ten thousand warriors droop the plumed head,
And weep aloud for the anointed dead:
The last crown'd brow of the proud Saxon race,
The mighty Harold, with the grave is wed.
Never again shall beam his kingly face—
Never again his arm shall wield the conquering mace.
A black steed moves along by soldiers led,
His gallant rider gone, he lov'd of yore:
Ten thousand warriors droop the plumed head,
And weep aloud for the anointed dead:
The last crown'd brow of the proud Saxon race,
The mighty Harold, with the grave is wed.
Never again shall beam his kingly face—
Never again his arm shall wield the conquering mace.
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