Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World :: :: University of Virginia Library

[Suggested by the monkish chronicle of William of Malmesbury, who was personally intimate with the Conqueror and his cruel son, and who mentions many picturesque incidents connected with the battle, that handed over England from one usurper of her throne to another, that are omitted by better historians.]

An angry man was the Bastard,
As he dashed his wine-cup down,
And darker grew his furrowed brow,
And blacker grew his frown.

He swore on the holy relics,
“By the glory of the Lord,”
Till he'd hurled the nithering from his throne,
He'd never sheathe his sword.

And he tore in twain his royal robe,
And laid his mantle down,
And donned his dinted hauberk,
And doffed his father's crown.

While the Norman barks are manning,
He paces on the sand,
At the white rock walls of Britain
He shakes his mailed hand.

On the eve of good St. Michael,
His ship with the crimson sail,
Like a falcon on its quarry,
Flies fast before the gale.

112

Their glittering vanes like golden stars,
Shine bright upon the deep,
Like some dream's gorgeous pageant
Across a poet's sleep.

Still as the slain in battle,
The realm of England lay;
The doomed upon the morrow,
Are banqueting to-day.

Blythest of all is Harold,
His gem-bossed robe gleams bright;
Though a shroud shall wrap that monarch
Before the morrow's light.

There's bloody stains on every brow,
There's blood on every hand,
And viewless forms of terror
Move silent 'mid the band.

A weary man was Harold,
Weary of foeman's slaughter,
Of press, and throng, and battle,
Down by dark Humber's water.

A panting vassal enters,
“The Norman's come,” he cries;
“Begone,” said the jeering nobles,
“The Saxon villain lies.”

“There's camped a host at Hastings
Of shaven priests in arms;”
“They're pilgrims,” said a vavasour,
“Poor chanters of the psalms.”

“By Heaven!” cried noble Harold,
“No woman's priests are these;
Arm for the shock of battle,
This is no time for ease.”

113

From the one camp rang the shout and song
Into the midnight air;
From the other, to the silent stars
Arose the pious prayer.

The hymn to Christ's sweet mother
Was heard by God on high;
The curse of the drunken jesters
Drew vengeance from the sky.

The night, the still calm night, went by,
Red morning dawned again;
With an eagle's glance the Bastard
Swept the broad level plain.

To the chanted hymn of Roland
The Norman host came on;
From his cloudy home of darkness
Came forth the golden sun.

Like eagles on untiring wing
The gonfanels flew past;
The war shouts 'mid that forest
Moved like a tempest blast.

With his gold bound brow, the Bastard
Shone fair with banded mail;
Like the ruddy flame from Heaven
That gleams on shattered sail.

Gay hearted were the spearmen
To leave the trenched camp;
High shone the sacred banner
Above their measured tramp.

114

In the teeth of the bearded Saxon
Drove fast the arrow sleet;
Ne'er upon gilded gambazon
Did such a tempest beat.

The slingers plied the leathern thong,
And the Norman shafts they flew;
And 'mid the Kentish chosen van
A bloody lane, they hew.

'Mid Martel's band, the Saxon axe
Cleaves through bright painted shield;
And shouts, and yells, and shrieks, and groans,
Go up from gory field.

Like a peasant churl fights Harold,
And Gurth is by his side;
Like two strong, lusty swimmers,
They stem the battle tide.

Ah, God! a shaft has pierced the brain
Of him who wears the crown;
Like a monarch to his slumber
He lapseth slowly down.

As if in grief for Harold,
The sun sinks to his rest;
Like a gore-bestained conqueror
Far in the crimson west.

Throned on a heap of English dead,
Where reddest was the sod,
Where Harold fell, the Bastard kneels,
And thanks his gracious God.

115

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEAD.

[_]

[At the funeral of William the Conqueror, in the Abbey of St. Stephen's, at Caen, a burgher advanced from amongst the crowd, and appealing, by right of an ancient law, to Rollo, the great leader of the Norsemen, and using the set form of invocation, “Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince,” claimed the ground in which the tyrant's grave was sunk, as that on which his own father's house had stood, and of which he had been unjustly deprived by the fierce bastard prince. Henry dared not neglect his demand, and for so many hundred marks the brave citizen parted with his birth-right.]

'Twas by the holy altar,
Where the yellow tapers stood,
And the light was deep and solemn
As the dim light of a wood;
'Twas when all silent stood the crowd,
That one clear voice rang deep and loud,—
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro à l'aide, mon prince.”

From the throng of pallid gazers
Stepped one who boldly said,
“I claim this narrow resting-place,
Prepared for the dead;
No prince of royal name
Should glory in his shame.
Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”

He was a simple burgher,
But he showed no sign of fear,
As he stood beside the crowned dead—
Beside a monarch's bier.
The crypt returned the sound
Back from its deeps profound.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”

116

“There stood my father's cottage,
Where that jewelled altar stands;
This stately abbey's reared
Upon my father's land;
Yon tyrant's brow is stained with sin,
His name shall be cursed by his own proud kin.
Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”

“'Twas a blood-stained hand that raised
This costly shrine to God;
Already the grim oppressor
Is smitten with his rod.”
Still on the bier, as he spoke, the light
Of the rainbow pane fell fair and bright.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”

And it seemed to tinge with the flush of shame
The pale cheek of the dead;
To a whisper died the solemn chant,
The monks hung down their head;
And the mourning warriors, gathered round,
Shuddered to hear that boding sound,—
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.

“When small and great shall trembling stand
Before God's fearful face,
Before his bright-faced angel
I'll claim this holy place;
When the blast of the dreadful trump has blown,
And he stands before his Judge alone.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”

Then one stood forth, with a pale clear brow,
And his father's haughty frown,
And paid the price that the burgher claimed
Of him that wore the crown,—

117

Of him whose iron-mailed hand
Won for himself the Saxon's land.
'Twas in the days when truth and right
Full seldom conquered power and might.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”

THE REBEL EARL.

[_]

[The civil wars of the time of Henry III. are, perhaps, the most barbarous that we find recorded in our history. Father fighting against son, and son against father. Among the group of rebellious nobles, Simon de Montford, Earl of Leicester, stands conspicuous in savage majesty. “Simon, je vous défie,” was the cry of the young prince, not, it must be confessed, at the sanguinary battle of Evesham, but at an earlier conflict, when his aged father was placed in the van of his enemies.]

Down on dark rebel host
The aged monarch's gazing;
Red as the boding comet
The dragon banner 's blazing.

122

Shrill through the sunny sky
Rang out the prince's cry,
Loud o'er war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

By the bright flowing Severn
There was hewing of the mail;
There was driving of the hammer
Through iron ring and scale.
Still ran the fierce war cry,
Loud 'mid the din on high,
Shrill o'er the tempest glee,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

Through blazoned coat and aketon
The winged arrow sped,
Through barred helm and target
With the foeman's heart-blood red.
Shrill through the sunny sky
Rang out the prince's cry,
Loud o'er war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

The white cross of the rebel earl
Grew crimson with the dye;
Fast o'er his mangled body
The cowering rebels fly.
Still rang the fierce war-cry,
Loud 'mid the din on high,
Shrill o'er the tempest glee,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

One knight a hundred cowards
Is driving with his brand,
Till, weary of the slaughter,
He stays his blooded hand.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

123

The old king clasps the victor,
As bridegroom might a bride;
Red stained with blood of rebel
The Severn flows beside.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

Robes that great queens have woven
On the red field are strewn;
Their wearers' helms are cloven,
Their blazoned garb is hewn.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie.”

Leicester's proud earl has fallen
Upon the bloody field;
His heart's best blood is welling
Upon his battered shield.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

Better is honest burgher
Than traitor knight or earl,—
Better the lowest varlet
Than such a rebel churl.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

England may mourn the slaughter
Of Evesham's bloody fight;
There's food for hawk or falcon,
For raven and for kite.

124

No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

The wild birds' cruel talons
Tear the knight's silken vest;
Shreds of the bloody raiment
Will “theek” their rock-built nest.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”

KING EDMUND.

[_]

[This Saxon king was stabbed by a robber, whom he attempted to turn out of his palace hall, at a banquet, where the daring villain had bearded his monarch.]

The torch's flame and the broad hearth's blaze,
Gleam bright on cup and bowl;
The pride of a crowned conqueror,
Filled the Saxon monarch's soul.

And the crimson banner shed a glare,
Not upon spear and sword;
But on the noisy revellers,
Seated around the board.

“Waes hael to the great King Edward,
Hail to that flag of thine;
Which struck a fear to the burghers five,
To the men of the Mercian Tyne.

“Waes hael to the king whose fetters,
Bind round the Danish thane;
Instead of the golden bracelet,
Let them wear the iron chain.

125

“Waes hael to the blood red banner,
That waved on the old gray wall;
Hail to the sword that made the Dane,
Before the rood cross fall.”

The seven chiefs of England,
Do homage to their lord;
The seven chiefs of England,
Are sitting round his board.

“Give God the praise who smote the foe,”
Thus an abbot chode his pride:
“'Twas no mass of thine that shook their ranks,”
The angry monarch cried.

“Go, scourge him from our presence—
'Tis these, and such as these,
Who beard their king, and 'fore his throne,
Refuse to bend their knees.”

“Proud king, thy heart is evil,
The God thou hast defied;
The God who smites the tyrant,
Rebuke thee for thy pride.

“A holy hymn was the battle cry,
Struck terror to the Dane;
St. Cuthbert's Cross was thy standard,
On Mercia's battle plain.

“'Twas the breath of prayer that winged the shaft,
That smote the rebel crew;
An angel form led on the van,
When the battle trumpet blew.

“God's servant thou hast scorned,
His vengeance thou shalt see;
On the brow that bears the Saviour's cross,
Is the brand of infamy.”

126

Loud through the palace portal,
Come the deep groans within;
It rose above the song and shout,
And all the stormy din.

“'Tis but the monk,” the monarch said,
“With biting cords he's bound;
Stripes are the fat monk's penance,
With stripes we lash the hound.”

Whose was that laugh which rings so fierce,
Like a fiend that mocking laughs;
With eyes like a wild beast glaring,
A cup the stranger quaffs.

But while he drains the flagon,
He gazes on the king;
And his restless eyes are like a snake's,
Before it makes its spring.

A thousand angry passions
In that dark face have reign;
His hair is black and matted,
Like a wild creature's mane.

With a bound the Saxon monarch,
Leapt fierce upon his prey;
“Shall a man whose hands are bloody,
Be seen in the light of day?”

With gnashing teeth they grapple,
They struggle with the sword;
Ere those savage men are parted,
Slain is the Saxon lord.

One look of rage the robber cast,
Upon the fallen chief;
Then sheathed his knife and went to death,
Without one thought of grief.

127

DECIUS.

[_]

[In the great battle between the Romans and the Latins, b.c. 339, the omens being unfavourable to his country, the consul, Decius, determined to devote himself to death, to save the armies of the seven-hilled city. “Putting on his white robe,” says Livy, “he covered his head, and, placing his foot on the blade of a javelin, repeated a prayer to the nine gods.” Then, mounting a charger, this lion-heart hewed himself a grave in the squadrons of the foes that strove to overpower the infant Hercules.]

Beneath Great Vesta's mountain
There's sound of battle clang,
Far o'er the distant ocean
The brazen clangour rang.

The flame of the lava torrent
Shines upon helm and blade;
On broad spear head, and banner,
And men for death arrayed.

Through the black tempest vapour,
In the troubled sky above,
The flame, as it strove in passion,
Glared like the eye of Jove.

In vain, the Roman squadrons
Cleave the proud Samnite's shield;
In vain, their serried phalanx
Drives o'er the trampled field.

In vain, the Roman pilum
The rebel Latin smites;
To save the sacred capitol,
In vain the consul fights.

Still o'er the warring nations
The volcan casts a glow;
Red as the waves of Phlegethon,
In the dark realms below.

128

Its fiery tongues shoot flaming,
Red as Jove's arrowy leven,
Seeming to strive to reach the sun,
And blot it from the heaven.

Mars smiles not on his banner,
Amid the weapon's jar;
On unbroke ranks the grim god's wolf
Shines like a silver star.

“Would he that smote the Volsci
Could break their bristling rank;
Would their black steeds were plunging
In Pontus' marshes dank.

“There's vengeance in the heaven,
'Twas shuddered at in hell,
When, in the pride of conquest,
Titus, the hero, fell.”

“Peace, cowards!” cried the consul;
“I swear by the gods above,
No victim ever offered,
So pleased the mighty Jove.

“Think of the Seven hill'd City—
On, with thy betters, on;
We'll drive them in the ocean
Before the setting sun.”

“Up! up! ye warriors—kneeling,
Poor beggars! for a life”—
Cry the sneering Latin spearmen,
As nearer swells the strife.”

“We bend but to the Thunderer—
We heed no jeers from thee;
We bend to the God of the Trident,
Who ruleth yonder sea.”

129

In vain, against the Latin,
They hurry firm and fast;
As vain as on yon mountain
Beats ever the sea blast.

“To the gods, the hell-born Manes,
I vow this hoary head—
Come, Pontifex!” he shouted—
“Prepare me for the dead.”

The white robe, bound with purple,
He wrapped him around,
Then veiled his old and scarred brow,
And leapt upon the ground.

With bare feet, on a pilum,
He stood awhile in prayer,
And looked on the foe with a glance of fire,
And a wild and fixed stare.

“O ye nine gods of Hades!
That rule in hell below,
Prosper the Roman armies,
And blast this vaunting foe.

“Hear me, thou burning mountain!
Dark prison of the slave!
Grant that red throngs of foemen
May 'tend me to the grave.

“Hear me, great Sun! whose parting ray
Warms my pale, aged cheek:
Great Jove! great Jove! thou crowned one!
Speak to thy servant—speak!”

With a roar, the burning mountain
Poured up a jet of fire,
The consul bowed his hoary head,
And hailed great Heaven's sire.

130

“Go tell my brother consul
How an aged warrior died—
That he went, like a youthful bridegroom,
To meet a happy bride—

“Crowned with the wreaths of glory
I won in the days of yore,
Clad with a priest's white vestments,
Soon to be red with gore.”

Then girding tight his blanched robes,
One look at the coming night,
He dashed on his sable charger
Into the thickest fight.

Like the waves upon a diver,
The dark ranks closed him in;
They see his white robes waving
Amid the battle din.

Like a sea-bird's snowy pinion,
Fluttering against a cloud,
When the rain-winds cover the darkened earth
With vapours like a shroud.

While still the sun was setting
Up in the crimson skies,
The shouts of joy and triumph
From Roman warriors rise.

131

CURTIUS.

[_]

[Livy, that delightful reciter of old wives' fables, tells us that, a.u.c. 391, a wide chasm suddenly opened in the forum of Rome, which the augurs pronounced would never close until Rome had thrown in that which she valued most. M. Curtius, a brave young patrician, on hearing the oracle, clothed himself in complete steel, exclaimed that arms and valour were the dearest treasure of the Romans, and, praying to the gods, leaped into the abyss, which closed over his head.]

There's silence in the forum,—
No more the human tide,
Low murmuring like the ocean,
Pours through its portals wide.

There's fear on pallid faces,
The hum of men is mute,—
Hushed is the mummer's jesting,
Hushed is the Oscan flute.

No maidens throng the market,
No traders hurry there;
Nought breaks the mournful silence,
But some poor trembler's prayer.

But still, as when new founded
By Romulus divine;
High o'er the seven-hilled city
The rock-built temples shine.

When the blood of a murdered brother,
The twin son of the god,
Fell on the fresh raised rampart,
And crimsoned all the sod.

132

With dusky wave the Tyber
Flows through the silent plain,
Silent as when in senate-house
The aged men lay slain.

Jove veils his face in anger,
So boding augurs say;
On a chasm in the forum
Looks down the god of day.

Jove's lightnings light the city:
'Twas his globe-shaking hunder
That furrowed up that chasm,
And tore the earth asunder.

The seven hills in that abyss
Were but a heap of sand;
In vain the sacred offerings
Thrown by the pontiff's hand.

“The Roman's dearest treasure,”
The holy augur cries,
“Alone will fill that yawning gulf,
Black as the tempest skies.”

Gay through the spacious forum
A bride, new wedded, came,
Blushing 'mid glad array of friends,
That shout her bridegroom's name.

And by her side rode Curtius,
Of Rome's fair sons the pride;
Down through the trembling multitude
The youthful warriors ride.

He hears the whispered words of Jove—
“A heart for every fate
Is Rome's best pride and treasure,
The bulwark of her state.”

133

“In vain the Gauls were routed
By Allia's hoary mount,—
In vain with gore we stained
The river's bubbling fount,—

“If Mars in day of anger,
In wrath's hot fiery hour,
Hath smote the sacred forum,
And shattered Tyber's tower.”

He clasped his bride, a moment gazed
On capitol and hill,
Beside the sun-lighted Tyber
A moment standeth still.

One prayer to Rome's dark manes,
One glance at her who wept,
Then with a bound the goaded steed
Into the chasm leapt.

With a bursting shout to heaven
Of joy unstained by tear,
With a gaze of awe and wonder,
Of terror and of fear,

They see the jaws of the dark abyss,
The home of the noble dead,
Silent and slowly closing
Above that victim's head.

'Twas men like these who founded Rome,
Who kings from their proud thrones hurled;
'Twas such as these that Cæsar led
To conquer half the world.

134

THE HYMN OF THE SALIAN PRIESTS.

I.

Great son of Jove, no pæans please thy ear,
No song of hunters 'mid the forest drear;
No chant of shepherd, when they slay the lamb,
No hymn of maidens when they lead the ram,
Bound round with flower-wreaths, to the mystic shrine
Of mighty Pan, or the wood-nymphs divine;
No praise delighteth thee, no whispered prayer,
Breathed by a kneeler to the midnight air.
If costly offering, in palace or in den,
Alike displease thee, god, what lov'st thou, then?
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

II.

Thy temple is some blasted battle plain,
Strewn with the mossy skulls of ancient slain;
Thy priests, the howling wolf, the mountain-fox,
That roam at daybreak from the caverned rocks;
Thy song of praise, the savage eagle's scream,
Soaring above the lightning's lurid gleam.
Thy votaries, the raven and that hooded bird,
Whose croak, by night, amid the dead is heard;
Who thatches, with the hair of those that rest,
The bloody chamber of his lonely nest.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

III.

The din of arms delights thee, and the sound is sweet,
When warring millions on the broad plain meet,
When Roman falchion cleaves the gilded mail,
When the fierce spear drives through the pliant scale,

135

When the harsh clarion roars its demon note,
And pours wild panic from its brazen throat;
When the wolf standard summons from afar,
The armed Latin, hurrying to the war;
When the red beacon glares with baleful light,
And glaring, like a comet, through the troubled night;
Then, when the savage Tuscan shouteth loud,
Thy brazen chariot thunders through the cloud.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

IV.

No blood of gentle lamb is shed for thee,
Mailed son of Jove, thou lovest more to see
The living turf, around thy shrine bedewed
With gore, dripped from the beak of vulture; when the rude
Scythian herdsman, the libation pours
The while, with battered targe, and savage roars,
He thee invokes, by sword thy right hand wields,
By reddened lances, and by flaming shields,
To thee, whose glaring eye rejects the sacrifice,
Mocks at the incense wreathing to the skies;
Whose victims are the warriors slain, whose altar is the grave,
Thy best libation blood that stains the wave.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

V.

All worship thee,—from Italy's rich plains,
To where the dusky King of Egypt reigns.
The thousand islands of the Grecian sea,
The quiver-bearing Gauls shout praise to thee.
The Syrian, kneeling to the sun's bright ray,
Hails thee more potent than the god of day.

136

To honour thee, the life's-blood crimson rain,
Man poureth forth, and will pour forth again.
Many a peasant, many a king his life
Hath yielded to the sword, thy sacrificial knife.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile from heaven, thou lookest down.

THE PILGRIM'S DEPARTURE.

[_]

[The long robe, the bourdon, or staff, to which the bottle was fastened, the scrip, and the cockled hat of the pilgrim, were consecrated by the village priest on the eve of his departure. The novice, having confessed his sins, threw himself before the altar. Prayers were then said over him; he was invested in his robes, and conducted in procession to the limits of his native village; the cross and holy water borne before him. What a beautiful scene the pilgrim's parting would make for the pencil!]

The sun in flaming splendour,
Sank down behind the hill;
Its rays grew faint on mountain-top,
On river and on rill,
When down before a holy shrine
Knelt one who's bound for Palestine.

The altar's neath the storied pane,
That dyes the sun-light red,
Like a saint's bright crown of glory,
It glowed upon his head;
And many a peasant gathered there,
Joined in the solemn parting prayer.

The priest stood at the altar
In chasuble arrayed;
The sun burnt red and fiery,
Amid the forest's glade;
Mother and sire together stood,
With youth and maiden, beside the rood.

137

O'er hat and staff and sandalled shoon
The priest repeats the charm;
That whether in Ind or Araby,
Shall keep the soul from harm;
'Twas a touching sight the priest to see
Sign o'er the robe the crosses three.

“God guide the staff that guides thy feet
O'er boiling desert sand;
God guard the shoon that clothe thy feet,
In many a savage land;
This cockle hat, remember thee,
Proclaims one bound for Galilee.

“God keep thee from the desert asp,
Christ's mother shield thee well
From spear, and shaft, and crescent sword,
From Moor and Infidel.
Wherever, pilgrim, thou shalt be,
Christ's holy benison on thee.”

Still lower sank the blood-red sun;
The moon shone faint on high,
Though scarce the flame-crowned monarch
Had left the summer sky,
That sin-soiled pilgrim of the West,
Crossed his hands on his guilty breast.

No sound broke on the stillness
As from the ground he leapt;
No sound, save one deep heart-sob,
The cry of one that wept;
He filled his bottle at the rill,
Then hied him o'er the Eastern hill.

One look at fading village,
And the old tower on high,
As still its cross stood dark and clear
Against the western sky.
His father's home the darkness shrouds,
As o'er the moon steal dusky clouds.

138

Last look the pilgrim's taken
Of that dear father land;
His bone shall parch and whiten
Upon the desert sand;
His last faint gaze was turned on ye,
Ye deep, dark waves of Galilee.

THE MILLER'S SONG.

Hey! for the stone that crushes,
Ho! for the whirling sail,
When the old mill shakes in every plank
Like a vessel in the gale.

Hey! for the blast that driveth
The ponderous mill-wheel round,
When of the snow-storm showering,
We hear the mellow sound.

Hey! for the winds of winter,
When it never bloweth ill;
In the idle breeze of summer,
The miller sitteth still.

When autumn winds come piping,
From the dark rain-fraught cloud,
At the corn's bright golden billows
The miller laugheth loud.

When the winds blow fast and fiercer,
In valley and on hill,
When the weary reaper's toiling,
Then faster drives the mill.

In the dull, gray night—the long, long night,
When the frost is on the earth,
A weary man's the miller,
As he sitteth by his hearth.

139

Hey! for the roaring hurricane,
That tears the forest tree,
For the savage din of tempest
Is the miller's melody.

All bright in wild December,
The whole chill night along,
O'er the buzz within, and the roar without,
Is heard the miller's song.

When the bare, bleak moor is lying
All white beneath the moon,
The north wind roars a thunder bass
To the burly miller's tune.

When the mill-sails wild are tossing,
Like a spirit's arms on high,
Like the arms of one beseeching
Help from the calm, blue sky.

Help from the savage fury
Of the wind that flies above,—
The wind that the blanched millers—
The gray old millers love.

Hey! for the stout nor-wester,
That rattles the cottage pane,
The wind is the miller's vassal,
For it grinds his yellow grain.

It may sweep o'er distant mountains,
It may roar across the hill,
It may speed along the barren moor,
But first it drives the mill.

Summer's a weary season,
Dull is the sunny earth;
'Mid the cold, gray rain of winter
Is the time for the miller's mirth.

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No lover's voice seems sweeter
To her that waits to hear,
Than the trumpet shout of the tempest
Unto the miller's ear.

The miller is no coward,
Though he's pale as a frightened maid,
His cheeks are red as the first spring-rose,
In its robe of snow arrayed.

And all night long when the rushing wind
Is roaring loud without,
From the bars of the old mill window
At the stars he looked out.

THE WOODMAN'S SONG.

In the bright May time, in the young spring's prime,
The axe he layeth by;
When the birds sing gay the livelong day,
To hail the summer nigh;
But the woods ring out to his merry shout
When the leaf is off the tree,
When the tempest clouds the forests shroud,
A merry man is he.

And he loves to sing when the forests ring
To the axe's echoing sound,—
When, as thunder loud, the oak has bowed
And crashed to the ground.
Like an armed knight, in the press of fight,
He hews with his axe away,
Through the wood's dark rank, on the marsh reed dank,
Flows in the flood of day.

141

No forest tree, whatever it be,
Spareth this sturdy wight;
The oak's rough stem his blows o'erwhelm,
And the beech with its red leaf bright;
For a hoary bole, this rugged soul
Cares not though it be of oak;
What the lightning's spear could never sear,
Is felled with his mighty stroke.

And the silver trunk of the birch has sunk
Beneath his crushing blow;
Thro' the beech' smooth side and the cedar's pride,
His broad keen blade will go.
Were each wood and glade in its pride arrayed,
With bud, and flower, and leaf,
To his blunted soul some pang had stole,
Some gentle thought of grief.

But the winter's hour is his time of power,
When the wild winds whistle loud;
If the woodman spare, that tree they'll tear,
And dash it to the ground;
And they sigh and moan, with a thunder groan,
As mourning for their fate,
As a spirit had past on the winged blast,
But mercy were too late.

When o'er your head, 'mid the pine boughs red,
You hear the night winds surge,
As the wood sprites there, for their forest care,
Were muttering a dirge.
He's a crowned king in the mild sweet spring,
For he marks his victims then;
Of his broad axe blade he a sceptre made,
Forged in a forest den.

O the woodmen good, in the lonely wood,
Heap up the crackling fire;
With a cruel smile they watch the while
The blazing of the fire.

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And they hear the howl, and the savage growl
Of the wolf that waits without;
But what care they then, those merry men,
As they push the stoup about.

WRITTEN IN AN OLD TOWER IN NORTH WALES.

The sun's last gleam's on Snowdon's head,
The sky is kindling in the glow,
The light upon the mountain shed,
Is mirrored in the lakes below.

On yonder seaward-looking tower,
Falls evening's red and mellow light,
Again, as in days of splendour,
Its chamber walls grow bright.

As with some rich old tapestry
That decks a chieftain's halls,
With the gleam of ancient revelry,
The fitful splendour falls.

And the scent of the wallflower fills the air,
As when, from the spicy east,
The palmer brought the perfume rare,
For the giver of the feast.

Through the shattered breach the first pale star
Looks down upon the earth,
On the old gray rock that the night-winds mar,
On the place of the wild storm's birth.

Dreams of the past are dwelling here,
In this home of the wandering blast,
Sad thoughts of the great and mighty,
Who from the earth have past.

143

THE WAR SONG OF THE WELSH BORDERERS.

Awake! for the dragon standard
Is waving on each tower,
Awake! ye men of the mountain land,
For now is the vengeance hour.
Awake! ye men of the torrent's land,
For red are the clouds that lour.

'Tis not to chase the bloody wolf,
Upon great Snowdon's height,
It is to chase the bloody men,
And battle for the right.
Arm! arm! ye men of the lake and stream,
Against proud England's might.

We'll drive them to their postern door,
Like a shepherd a thievish hound,
We'll leap old Chester's river wall,
All armed, at a bound;
Not an English boor, in all wide Wales,
Shall anywhere be found.

Think of the Welsh king's glory,
Ye men that guard the fold,
Think of the leaguered cities,
In the glorious days of old.
Awake! ye men of the horny hand,
And the lion heart and bold.

144

THE GATHERING SONG OF THE KINGS OF HARLECH.

[_]

[Adapted to the tune of a Highland pibroch.]

Come, at the hirlas blast,
Come, as the torrent fast;
Swift on the foemen stoop,
With the dun eagle's swoop,
Come, chiefs of the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.

From your home in the rock,
Come with the thunder's shock;
Down from each crag and hill,
Fast from each mountain rill.
Come, chiefs with the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.

Pour as the torrents pour,
Roar as the torrents roar;
Spur on your chargers fast,
Swift as the tempest blast.
Come, chiefs of the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.

Ere the red beacon's light,
Scare the dull clouded night
Round grey old Chester's wall,
We shall be gathered all.
Come, chiefs of the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.

Let the silk banners crowd,
Dark as the thunder cloud;
Let the bright spear-heads beam,
Like the blue lightning's gleam.
Come, chiefs with the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.

145

THE DEMON OAK.

A WELSH LEGEND.

[_]

“In the reign of Henry IV.,” says Bingley, in his book on North Wales, “Nannau, now the estate of the Vaughan family, situated on an eminence near Dolgelly, belonged to Howel Sele, who, though the first cousin of Owen Glendower, sided with the Lancastrian party. Upon one occasion, whilst these cousins were hunting together, Howel bent his bow, and pretending to take aim at a doe, suddenly turned round and shot at Owen, but the armour which he wore prevented any injury from the arrow. Owen immediately seized his kinsman (“a little more than kin, and less than kind,”) who was never heard of afterwards alive; but after forty years had elapsed, a skeleton, supposed to be his, was found in the hollow of a large oak, where he had probably been hidden by Owen.

This oak was named “Darwen Ceubren yr Ellyll, the hollow oak of the demons,” and was, to the day of its destruction in 1813, the terror of the superstitious.”]

Through Nannau's wood, to shout and song,
The hounds and chargers swept along,
When leaves were sere and brown;
And foremost of the cavalcade,
That poured through thicket and through glade,
Rode one that wore a crown.

A jewel in his bonnet shone,
His baldrick glow'd with many a stone,
Of dark and veering light.
His bright hair on the oak leaves cast
A lustre, as the gallant past,—
He was a goodly knight.

But louder, on that fatal morn,
Than bay of hound, or blast of horn,
'Bove neigh of fiery horse;
O'er the deep sighing of the breeze,
Through rustling woods and rocking trees,
Foamed on the torrent's course.

146

Leaving the red clouds where they slept,
The lightnings from their dark homes leapt,
Far flash their blinding blaze:
From mountain, den, and antre vast,
Flew forth the fiercely shrieking blast,
Unseen to mortal gaze.

Then, swifter than the storm wind's flight,
Through forest dark, with sudden night,
The huntsmen fled away.
The sound of distant bay is heard,
Faint as the warbling of a bird,
At breaking of the day.

Glendower and Howel, left alone,
Crouched down behind a mossy stone,
Some wreck of Druid times;
Where men poured out the human gore,
In cups of rock, in days of yore,
So say the Runic rhymes.

Bright as a marsh-sprite shone the knight,
By glimpse of that tempestuous light;
A sun-like ruby on his breast,
Gleamed, flickering with its prison'd fire,
The heir-loom of a royal sire,
It bound his snowy vest.

Behind the lichen'd ruins old,
The ramparts of an ancient hold,
They crouch them from the storm.
Again, like phantoms of the blast,
The frightened deer and hound fled past,
The hare cowed in her form.

Then cursed Howel's cruel shaft,
His royal brother's blood had quaffed,
Alas! for Cambria's weal!
But the false arrow glanced aside,
For, 'neath the robe of royal pride,
Lay plate of Milan steel.

147

A century had passed away,
When, on the eve of winter day,
A skeleton was found,
(Hid in the hollow of an oak,
Half riven by the thunder-stroke,)
With rusty fetter bound.

Keen blew the blast through forest tree,
'Mid winter winds fierce revelry,
Loud as the distant wave;
It tore the seared and blasted bole,
Then, like a charger to the goal,
Swept o'er the haunted grave.

Past Demon's haunt, where, long ago,
Glendower seized the traitor foe,
And chained him to the oak.
When years went by, a swineherd found,
The bleach'd bones to the old stem bound,
Well may the raven croak.

And now, when peasants pass at night,
When ways grow dim, and grey the light,
They pray, and hurry past;
And cross their brow, if, through the heaven,
Comes driving fast the lurid leven,
Or louder groans the blast.

148

THE WYE.

[_]

[It was on the banks of this beautiful river that Caractacus defeated the Romans. Old half crumbled towers and druidical stones are still to be seen, here and there, upon its banks.]

A river flowing, circling woods between,
Past many an ancient tower, long since the scene
Of battle 'tween the stern dwellers of the land,
And they, the eagle-bannered, who, with flaming brand,
Swept o'er the world like some dread hurricane,
Levelling the stately palace and the massive fane.
This old druid's stone, so grey and mossed with age,
The lifelong labour of some early sage,
In its rock cup has held libations of their blood;
Grim children of the Roman robber brood,
Nursed by the wolf, fed in a forest den,
With yet warm morsels of the flesh of men—
Men who great shrines to demon spirits raised,
And clanged their shields to the dread gods they praised.

Yet these rude crags that hem the river in,
Our mountain ramparts, heard of yore the din,
When blenched the legions from the British spear;
What time the cowering eagle, at the savage cheer,
Fled to his rocky nest, his ancient home,
Back to great Tyber's city, crowned Rome.
Sweet stream! whose ripple's whimpering tone
More cheers my ear than dying Roman's groan,
The Briton, leaning on his bronze axe shaft,
The while, all weary with the war, he quaff'd
Rich goblet of sweet mead or hydromel;
Such are the scenes thy voice, as by a spell,
Calls up, and fills the woods that, gathered high,
Seem like a silent multitude that gaze into the sky.

149

THE EAGLE TOWER OF CAERNARVON CASTLE.

Like some old crazed monarch, crowned with weeds,
And blossoms gathered from the wild field flowers,
Art thou; above thy ramparts and thy riven towers.
On the lone turret, where the stock dove breeds,
A lone flower sheds its perfume in the air,
Whether the sky above is bright and fair,
Or fiery billow clouds herald the storm that lowers:
Sweet type of love that to the wreck will cling,
And what it loveth once will love for ever,
Nor joy, nor grief, nor weal, nor woe, can sever,—
As faithful in the winter as in spring,—
Constant unto the death, faithful for now and aye,
Like beauty bending o'er the couch of one prepared to die.

MARCH.

The desert winds of Araby
With hotter glow the brown sands parch;
But not the storm of the Hellespont
Drives fiercer than the winds of March.

How still the silence of its death,—
How hushed the earth when it has past;
Fiercest of all the giant winds—
Is thy unresting blast.

150

ON AN OLD COIN OF VESPASIAN'S,

DUG UP NEAR THE RUINS OF A PALACE.

Was it some warrior Roman,
With cunning art and fine,
Who stamped this coin's surface
With letter and with sign?
Yes! he that grasped the pilum,
Dug metal from the mine.

Yes! he that in some camp's deep trench,
Dropped thee from mailed hand,
'Gainst Greek or swarthy Egyptian,
Had drawn the battle brand.
Yes! he that grasped the pilum,
Hath clutched thee in his hand.

He might have plundered Herod's hall,
Or the maddened Jew have slain,
When from the burning temple
Showered down the fiery rain.
Yes! he that grasped the pilum,
Trod many a bloody plain.

His gory hand, too daring,
Might have torn the veil away
That hid Jehovah's brightness
From the sullying light of day.
Ah! he that grasped the pilum,
Was no sluggard in the fray.

151

FEBRUARY.

The time when skies are free from cloud,
Though still the robin whistles loud
In the bare garden croft,
The catkin, on the hazel tree,
Mistakes for summer flower the bee,
And round it hovers oft.

Winter's last sigh, from frozen north,
Withers the flower that ventures forth;
And there is wanting still
The unseen warmth, the mellow note
Of the wild bird with dappled coat,
Though faster flows the rill.

When, from his winter home, the snake
Creeps stealthy through the withered brake,
And thoughtless of the past,
The young leaves open over head,
Though still their fathers, sere and dead,
Are hurried by the blast.

When linked together, hand in hand,
The buds break forth, a merry band
In every meadow hedge;
The lark sings up amid the cloud;
The happy streamlet ripples loud
Past the long flowering sedge.

And water-lilies, in a throng,
Creep up to hear the thrush's song,
Or notes from blackbird's bill;
And with a gushing voice of pleasure,
Its little store of silver treasure
Pours forth each little rill.

152

THE PIMPERNEL.

Little scarlet Pimpernel!
None but thou canst tell so well
What the weather change may be;
None can tell so well as thee
What the roving sun can see;
None so wisely half as thee;
When the welkin vapours shroud,
Telleth thee, the passing cloud,
When in east the pallid dawn
Heralds coming of the morn;—
Then with joy thou spreadest out
All thy little flowers about,
Where, in holt or upon wold,
Smiles thy little eye of gold.
When with clouds the heavens frown,
Then thy head thou bendest down.
Little weather-prophet, say,
Fair or foul, the coming day?
For thy eye, on sun above,
Dwells like lover on his love;
Like a courtier on his lord;
Or Parsee on his god adored;
Like kneeling Carib on the sun,
Thou gazest till his course is run—
Ever, ever gazing on,
Never musing but of one.
Come what seasons there may be,
Still unchanged thy flower we see,
Like a pennon in the wind,
Fickle as a maiden's mind,
Ever veereth round thy head,
Till in western waves of red,

153

Thy great monarch sinketh down,
Then, too, sinks thy tiny crown.
In thy humble flower we see
Type of fixed mobility.
Winds may blow as they blow now,
Still for winds what carest thou?
Though with fury raging free,
They should shake the giant tree,
Whatsoever be their power,
They will spare thy little flower;
E'en the bud that gems the sod,
Overshadowed is by God.
Little Persian; songs of praise
Do thy flowerets ever raise;
To thy God thou offerest up
Drops of dew in ruby cup;
And when sinks the king of light,
Thy violet eyes with tears grow bright,
Till the stars, whose softer beam,
Like the sun's fair children seem,
Shine upon the meadow-ground,
Where thy blossoms most abound;
Or, where trailing through the grass,
All thy snake-like sprays do pass.
Little scarlet Pimpernel!
None can tell us half so well
What the weather change may be—
None so wisely half as thee!

FLOWERS.

Ye short-lived flowers!
That strew your leaves upon the young spring's paths
In May's sweet hours.

Ye fragile flowers!
That tesselate with many a varied gem
Earth's greenest bowers.

154

Ye deep-dyed flowers!
Fed by the silver dew, and canopied by cloud,
Nurtured by showers.

Ye vari-coloured flowers!
That hang your fearful heads like timid beauty
When tempest lowers.

Ye sweet-juiced flowers!
That with such varied loveliness
Kind Nature dowers.

Ye transitory flowers!
Your life is far more happy, but as brief,
As short as ours.

THE NORSEMAN'S WAR-SONG.

Up, Bersekers! up, with the trample and roar
Of the waves that burst in on an iron-bound shore,
With the pride and the might of the surf o'er a reef,
To the sword-dance, with clamour, let's follow the chief.

Together, together, now push from the land;
Who will tarry at home by the smouldering brand?
As the blast of the tempest, the reed of the lake,
The war-axe and lance in our stout grasp shall shake.

Sharp in point and in edge as the walrus's tooth,
Neither sword-blade nor spear-point feel sorrow or ruth.
Pierce lance, and drink deep of the heart-blood within;
Come, cleave, thou good war-axe, the bone and the skin.

155

To-day we'll have vengeance, whatever betide;
We are coming, soon coming, in pomp and in pride.
What careth the storm for the withering tree!
God pity ye, cravens! no mercy have we.

The women and children pile logs on the hearth;
The banquet we'll share, with loud jest and fierce mirth;
Already the smoke-wreaths mount up to the sky,—
Already hot flames are up blazing on high.

O long we have tarried for revel and spoil;
The hounds have long bayed round the wide empty toil.
We ate our last morsel in sorrow alone,
Till nothing was left but the white rattling bone.

Up, warriors! up! ere the sun set to-day
Ye shall feast on the herds that we win in the fray;
The hot flames are mounting the heavens again—
On together, ye sons of the warrior men!

[The Bersekers, mentioned in the first verse of this song, were a class of men known among the northern nations, who, making a vow at the altar of some sea god, stripped themselves to their tunic, and then, swallowing a cup of some intoxicating beverage, rushed almost naked into the army of the enemy. The deeds of these frantic men, as related in the Sagas, are quite herculean. They formed, in reality, a rude order of knighthood.]

MAY.

Of sunlight and green shade, and songs of birds, a happy blending,
Of perfumes, and sweet sounds, and eyes' delight,
Mild showers, and blooming boughs, a pleasure neverending,
A gentle coming on of calm, cool night,—
These, these are blessings scattered in our way,
In happy May.

156

In happy May—when winter, girt with hideous winds
Seeks his ice caverns; his spies work summer grief
The canker blasts the bud; the ivy creeping binds
The oak in galling chains; the chill rain spots the leaf,
They plot by night, they plot the live-long day
In mournful May.

OLD LETTERS.

Old, brown, and mouldy pages,
Whose every leaf
Is stamped with mystic characters
Of joy and grief.

On such poor fragile monuments,
Past hope, past fear,
Past love, past scorn, past hate,
Are graven here.

Fragile creations of still frailer man,
That men outlast,
'Though from eternity, from whence he came,
The scribe be past.

O, there are tongues within these dry brown leaves,
That speak as Autumns do;
They cry of death and sorrow,
To me—to you.

To look on thee, is the dark coffin lid
Of some old tomb to raise,
And on the mouldering dead within
Silent to gaze.

157

Their mute but mighty voice,
Tells of days past,
Of leaves swept from an aneient tree,
And withered in the blast.

Dear record of long-vanished days,
Whose silent spell
Invokes so potently the aged deed,
Farewell—farewell!

A WARNINGE WORDE.

TO MY LOVINGE FRIENDE, LAUNCELOT BURBAGE, 1610.

Take heed of what I tell thee now,
Trust not in star and broider'd vest;
Beware, dark eye and arched brow,
Beware of gently-pouting breast,
For thy good hand, and thy good brain
Are worth the four—and four again.

There's neither fiend, nor sprite, nor elf,
Can speed thee in the ways of life,
Nought but the strivings of thyself;
Nor friend can aid, nor child, nor wife,
Then give, my friend, thy utmost heed
To what may serve thee at thy need.

For friends are but a sharpened reed,
Against the desert lion's might,
As well go hew with blunted spade,
At golden targe of wizard knight.
And never breathe a word of love,
I pray thee by the gods above.

158

For love's a thing that cannot fail,
To leave thee at thy utmost need;
In leaky pinnace face a gale,
Go, rather brave the ice winds' host.
When age needs care and gentler smiles,
Pray where are then Love's pretty wiles?

To build your love on woman's face,
Thou'dst better build on Goodwin's Sand—
The tide of Time sweeps o'er the place,
And now 'tis water, now 'tis land.
Than thus to peril heart of thine,
Thou'dst better drown thyself in wine.

And never dare to question me,
Or ask why drivelling man was born;
The world's a place, I whisper thee,
Where hearts with toiling are outworn.
And ere we've ventured half way through it,
We seldom fail full well to rue it.

We're angels winged for furthest flight,
Then chained in a murky vault;
We half obtain to wisdom's sight,
When Death to best of us cries “halt.”
We just begin to look around,
When we are all clapp'd under ground.

Just like a child, his puppet toys,
The sexton lays us one by one;
Noble and churl with crowned boys,
(Say royal Philip's god-like son.)
And in the box, a coffin call'd,
Together by grim Death we're haul'd.

Like a poor rushlight we're snuff'd out,
Ere half our scanty taper's done;
This man that put five kings to rout,
And this man's sire and that man's son.
A few quick cycles and no more,
The world is as it was before.

159

Then tell me what the wise call Fame?—
This bully stabs another sot;
That stamps a penny with his name,
The difference is in Nature's lot.
The world's a masquerade—how strange,
We wear a crown an hour—then change.

This knave struts round with helm and sword,
Or wears to-day a purple vest;
That fool is called to-night a lord,
And pins a star upon his breast.
To-morrow's eve in death they meet,
A white shroud wraps their head and feet.

The pall of this old blockhead king,
Is richer for his coffin worm;
Ere well the death-bell they do ring,
Death stamps with livid brand his form.
Then what is Pride? the strutting stalk,
The aping of a stage ape's walk.

We're all but puppets at the best,
One wears a cap and one a crown;
The kaiser in his graveclothes drest,
Lays sceptre, ball, and signet down.
Do coffins of a curious wood,
Bar out the earth-worm's hungry brood?