 | England |  |
143
THE NORMAN'S FORESTS.
“Not content with these large forests, which former kings possessed in all
parts of England, William resolved to make a new forest, near Winchester,
the usual place of his residence; and, for that purpose, he laid waste the
county of Hampshire, for an extent of thirty miles, expelled the inhabitants
from their houses, seized their property, even demolished churches and convents,
and made the sufferers no compensation for the injury.”—Malmes.
Far, far, and wide, the rude drum beats the air!
The trumpet shouts—the charger neighs aloud!
Gone, England's homes—gone, gone, her pastures fair;
Gone, gone, her castles, long so strong and proud.
Her villages, that in pure quiet stood—
Her pleasant churches, with their Sabbath bell—
The marble tomb-stone and armorial shroud—
Gone, gone,—for what?—Alas, we know too well;
And forests yet remain the woeful tale to tell!
The trumpet shouts—the charger neighs aloud!
Gone, England's homes—gone, gone, her pastures fair;
Gone, gone, her castles, long so strong and proud.
Her villages, that in pure quiet stood—
Her pleasant churches, with their Sabbath bell—
The marble tomb-stone and armorial shroud—
Gone, gone,—for what?—Alas, we know too well;
And forests yet remain the woeful tale to tell!
Hundreds must die, that kings may hunt the deer,
'Mong their own pastures murder'd!—Aye, a king,
For his high sport, dare fill a land with fear!
Full many a cottage maiden ceas'd to sing
Her love-songs; whilst the husband could not bring,
From fields hereditary, childhood's bread;
The mother wept to see the cherub's wing
Eras'd.—The grave-flowers 'neath the Norman's tread—
The hunter on the grass, that deck'd her children dead.
'Mong their own pastures murder'd!—Aye, a king,
For his high sport, dare fill a land with fear!
Full many a cottage maiden ceas'd to sing
Her love-songs; whilst the husband could not bring,
From fields hereditary, childhood's bread;
The mother wept to see the cherub's wing
Eras'd.—The grave-flowers 'neath the Norman's tread—
The hunter on the grass, that deck'd her children dead.
144
Ah! little of such horrors can we deem,
Now gazing on those forests' waving tide!
There peace and plenty dwell; the pleasant dream,
The rural sport—there dwell a country's pride;
There sing the birds—there roll the seasons' tide—
There do the jocund years hold jubilee.
Scarce can we think that o'er these moss-groves wide
Deep groans were heard, wild sounds of misery—
The tears of deep distress, and bitter agony!
Now gazing on those forests' waving tide!
There peace and plenty dwell; the pleasant dream,
The rural sport—there dwell a country's pride;
There sing the birds—there roll the seasons' tide—
There do the jocund years hold jubilee.
Scarce can we think that o'er these moss-groves wide
Deep groans were heard, wild sounds of misery—
The tears of deep distress, and bitter agony!
Where was the retribution?—Did the sky
Not hurl its thunders?—Did the lightnings sleep?
Remorse would surely glare before his eye,
Who work'd iniquities so wild and deep?
Sure, at his palace gates, dead ghosts would weep,
And shriek the memories of past deeds of blood!
Ne'er yet did heaven allow the murderer reap,
Unharm'd, his work: it loves the pure and good:
Her myriad eyes at once upon the tyrant brood.
Not hurl its thunders?—Did the lightnings sleep?
Remorse would surely glare before his eye,
Who work'd iniquities so wild and deep?
Sure, at his palace gates, dead ghosts would weep,
And shriek the memories of past deeds of blood!
Ne'er yet did heaven allow the murderer reap,
Unharm'd, his work: it loves the pure and good:
Her myriad eyes at once upon the tyrant brood.
Oh, not unseen was the oppressor's wrong!
Two dearest sons, hunting the stag, were slain.
One lovely daughter, bright, and fair, and young,
Meeting her bridegroom, sunk beneath the main.
His eldest born, 'mid bloody wars, held reign,
And beat his tyrant father to the ground:
His darling wife decay'd in hungry pain;
And he himself, whilst fires were blazing round,
Most miserably died, and in hell-fire sleeps sound.
Two dearest sons, hunting the stag, were slain.
One lovely daughter, bright, and fair, and young,
Meeting her bridegroom, sunk beneath the main.
His eldest born, 'mid bloody wars, held reign,
And beat his tyrant father to the ground:
His darling wife decay'd in hungry pain;
And he himself, whilst fires were blazing round,
Most miserably died, and in hell-fire sleeps sound.
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