Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World By G. W. Thornbury |
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THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEAD. |
 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
115
THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEAD.
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[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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
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,—
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.”
And his father's haughty frown,
And paid the price that the burgher claimed
Of him that wore the crown,—
117
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.”
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |