Still onward plunged his charger,
The flag was in his grasp;

When one death-dealing blow behind
Unfixed his gorget clasp.

Down, down, sank Robert Tesser,

Like a ship beneath the flood; While o'er him closed a sea of swords, Red with his noble blood.

The sun was fast descending
Below the western hill,
But round the royal banner
The fight was raging still.

And fast the Norman courage
Was changing into dread;
When from a bowman in the rear
A random arrow sped.

Swift for an instant in its flight
It glanced across the sky,
Then on the fair-haired Harold fell,
And pierced his princely eye.

He reeled, and for a moment
Sank low upon his knee;
Then sprang up like the swift rebound
Of some tall storm-bent tree.

Beneath the crimson banner
He sternly took his stand;
The sharp wound rankled in his eye,
But still he grasped his brand.

Fierce foes were pressing round him,
Quick came and went his breath;
He felt the life-blood flowing fast,
But still fought on to death.

*

*

*

*

D

A dazzling beam of glory

From out the fading west

For one brief instant bathed his brow
And tinged his golden crest.

And foremost in the battle,

His spirit soared for flight,
While closing o'er his lifeless corpse
Rolled on the waves of fight.

When that bright eve was ended,
When fell the gloom of night,

What fate had marked those dauntless hearts
That fought for England's right?

Where lay at night those glittering ranks,

That when the morn arose

Fast flowing on in mailèd might

So nobly met their foes?

Far stretched around their slaughtered king,

A mournful heap of slain.

How few of all that gallant host

E'er saw the morn again!

Yet worse their fate who still lived on,

A broken, scattered band,

While the proud Norman sat enthroned,
The conqueror of the land.

ESCAPE OF MARGARET OF SCOTLAND AFTER HASTINGS (1066)

A BALLAD

To Malcolm's court came Saxon lords
From Hastings' fatal field;

With manly scars from Norman swords,
And wounded hearts unhealed.

Lamenting Harold's glory set

In blood at manhood's morn;

Lamenting high-born Margaret,

A fugitive forlorn.

The hope of Edward's royal race
And English hearts was she;

The maid who from the Norman's face,
Sought refuge o'er the sea.

Then woman's meekness side by side
With manly worth was seen ;

When love enthroned her Malcolm's bride
And shouts proclaimed her queen.

Oh, then the truths her maiden years
Had silently set forth

She taught with earnest speech the peers
Who ruled the rugged North.

She said, "The weekly rest restore
To God and labour due ;

The half-forgotten round once more
Of fasts and feasts renew.

66

From pleasure fast, from stately pride
With alms and humble prayer,

And ever in your feasts provide
The friendless poor a share.”

True wife, whose gentle teaching led
Her husband's will to good;
Mother of kings, whose nurture fed

Their souls with heavenly food.

THE BURIAL OF THE CONQUEROR

BY FELICIA HEMANS

LOWLY upon his bier

The royal Conqueror lay;
Baron and chief stood near,
Silent in war array.

They lowered him with the sound
Of requiems to repose;

When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose :

"Forbear! forbear!" it cried, "In the holiest name forbear, He hath conquered regions wide But he shall not slumber there!

"By the violated hearth

Which made way for yon proud shrine ;
By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;

"By the home e'en here o'erthrown,
On my brethren's native spot ;-
Hence with his dark renown,
Cumber our birthplace not !

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Each pillar's massy bed

Hath been wet by weeping eyes;

Away! bestow your dead

Where no voice against him cries.”

Shame glowed on each dark face
Of these proud and steel-girt men,
And they bought with gold a place
For their leader's dust e'en then-

A little earth for him

Whose banner flew so far!

And a peasant's tale could dim

The name-a nation's star!

KING WILLIAM II, 1087-1100

CRUSADES

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE turbaned race are poured in thickening swarms
Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine,
The crescent glitters on the towers of Spain;
And soft Italia feels renewed alarms;

The scimitar, that yields not to the charms
Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain :
Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain
Their tents, and check the current of their arms.

THE DEATH OF RUFUS, 1100

BY MENELLA SMEDLEY

To hunt rode fierce King Rufus,
Upon a holy morn—

The Church had summon'd him to pray,
But he held the Church in scorn.
Sir Walter Tyrrel rode with him,
And drew his good bow-string;
He drew the string to smite a deer,
But his arrow smote the king!

Hurl'd from his trembling charger,
The death-struck monarch lay;
While fast, as flees the startled deer,

Rash Tyrrel fled away :

On the spot where his strong hand had made

So many desolate,

He died with none to pity him—

Such was the tyrant's fate!