England :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Son of Love, and Lord of War, I sing—
Him who bade England bow to Normandy,
And left the name of conqueror more than king
To his unconquerable dynasty.
Nor, fann'd alone by victory's fleeting wing,
He rear'd his bold and valiant throne on high;
The bastard kept like lions his prey fast,
And Britons' bravest victor was the last.
—Lord Byron.

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[This fragment was found among Lord Byron's papers after his departure from Genoa to Greece. From this it would appear that that great poet had chosen this important period of our history, as the subject of a poem. The portion of poetry here given is dated March, 1823.]

Fallen!—thy banners torn—thy standard broke—
Thy mightiest slain—thy proudest hero dead!
The branches sever'd from thy sovereign oak
When, England, wilt thou rear again thy head?
With the great deeds of Troy thy name is wed,
And through thy veins doth course its chivalry.
With thine the sturdy Briton's soul is wed;
Heroic enterprise and courage high,
And that wild savage fire that never all can die.

The blue-eyed Saxon came beyond the sea,
And shook his golden tresses on thy shore;
From him came truth and hospitality;
The Dane did fill thee with barbaric store.

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But, most of all, wading through seas of gore,
Roll'd the proud legions of triumphant Rome.
She gave thee peace, and strength, and learned lore,
Religion, honesty, and quiet home,
So that thou now art left the greatest o'er her tomb.

What did the Norman give but tyranny?
And lust and murder planted on our shore?
The Roman gave us peace and liberty;
The Saxon plough'd our fields—the Dane, no more—
The Normans stain'd our homes with reeking gore;
They toss'd young children on the flaming spear,
And with red hands our matrons' tresses tore;
Our lovely maidens, spite of sigh and tear,
With savage lust deflower'd, then murder'd in their fear.

Gaunt famine they let loose upon the land,
Starv'd the young child upon its mother's breast;
Our old nobility, with reckless hand,
They drove to death, and cruelly opprest:
Fire, death, and desolation, rage and lust
Broke loose—ne'er, England, wert thou so forlorn;
Thy wretched children knew not where to rest;
Hunted like hounds from sad and weary morn;
Whilst night brought no relief, but left them weak and worn.

Let Tyranny take root where'er it will,
Its breath, is groans—its sweetest joy, a tear;
The blood of patriots is its feeding rill;

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The sighs of slaves its choicest atmosphere;
The flowers and grass do fade when it is near;
And Truth and Honour cease to lift their head—
Its eyes glare death—its brows are black with fear;
The bloody couch of freedom is its bed;
Speak, Rome, is it not so?—speak out, ye mighty dead!

Speak out, O Carthage, Egypt, Greece, oh speak!
When tyranny did flourish most, ye fell;
Speak, ye old temples, this strong silence break!
Domes, amphitheatres, old cities, tell
How great ye were till tyranny befel!
It choked your power—your sinews sunk in might,
And truth and virtue ceased with you to dwell;
The sword, the pen, the sceptre lost their right;
The deeds of ages sunk in everlasting night.

But freedom is divine, and sanctified
With patriots' blood—her dwelling is on high,
Among the mountains, and in forests wide,
And her white plumes rejoice the morning sky;
Drest, all in savage robes, she wanders by,
Unshackled, fearless, strong, and unsubdued;
Fair is her forehead, clear her eagle eye,—
Her smiling cheeks with health's best colours hued;
And thus she journeys forth, for loftiest good embued.

The best and wisest worship at her feet,
Although she bears not sceptre, pall, nor crown;

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In noblest hearts she holds her chosen seat,
Nor ever fears the mightiest monarch's frown,
Who from her loftiest state can drag her down?
Where'er she dwells, the earth is glad and bright;
Peace, plenty, happiness, her empire own;
She fills the lands with glory, strength, and might,
And most, O England thou, hast flourish'd in her light.

'Tis this, my country, makes thy fields so green,
And with thy vessels fills the white-wing'd sea,
(What shore on which thy footsteps have not been?)
'Tis this that gives each cottage mirth and glee,
Makes all thy mountains ring with liberty!
That elevates thy councils, and afar
Doth spread thy wisdom and philosophy,
That edges, as with fire, thy sword of war,
And plac'd thy fame in heaven, to shine a glorious star.

They wash his body with the sacred oil;
They shape the cross upon his forehead white;
They wind his shroud; the bell of death they toll—
They chaunt the solemn hymns along the night,
To scare away all evil shapes of might:

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Then, in his royal robes of state array'd,
They lay him on the bier: whilst, shining bright,
Upon his breast the emerald cross is laid—
The cross and book of God: all earthly rites are paid.

The coffin—pall'd and plum'd—they bear along,
Whilst all the holy brethren, side by side,
Bear the white taper, chaunt the burial song,
And sound the prayer that speaks of fallen pride:
The organ peals along the minster wide,
In low deep note, like thunder's latest sound.
The ropes grate harsh—the grave worm is the bride
Of Normandy's best son—a monarch crown'd—
Conquer'd the conqueror, to death's red chariot bound.

Till the last trump shall blow, there let him lie:
Curses be with him—curses deep, and hate,—
The fiends that shriek o'er fallen tyranny;
And when the blast shall burst the charnel gate,
Red demons of remorse, in troops, shall wait,
And bear him onward, through the open sky—
The wrong'd—the slain—shall hunt him soon and late;
Angels be glad to see him from the sky,
And devils yell for joy through all eternity.