Read Ebook: The Visions of England Lyrics on leading men and events in English History by Palgrave Francis Turner Morley Henry Editor

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'But if this pale Paulinus Have somewhat more to tell; Some news of whence and whither, And where the Soul may dwell:-- If on that outer darkness The sun of Hope may shine;-- He makes life worth the living! I take his God for mine!'

So spake the wise old warrior; And all about him cried 'Paulinus' God hath conquer'd! And he shall he our guide:-- For he makes life worth living, Who brings this message plain,-- When our brief days are over, That we shall live again.'

Deira, , then comprised Eastern Yorkshire from Tees to Humber. Goodmanham, where the meeting described was held, is some 23 miles from York.

ALFRED THE GREAT

The fair-hair'd boy is at his mother's knee, A many-colour'd page before them spread, Gay summer harvest-field of gold and red, With lines and staves of ancient minstrelsy. But through her eyes alone the child can see, From her sweet lips partake the words of song, And looks as one who feels a hidden wrong, Or gazes on some feat of gramarye. 'When thou canst use it, thine the book!' she cried: He blush'd, and clasp'd it to his breast with pride:-- 'Unkingly task!' his comrades cry; In vain; All work ennobles nobleness, all art, He sees; Head governs hand; and in his heart All knowledge for his province he has ta'en.

O much-vex'd life, for us too short, too dear! The laggard body lame behind the soul; Pain, that ne'er marr'd the mind's serene control; Breathing on earth heaven's aether atmosphere, God with thee, and the love that casts out fear! A soul in life's salt ocean guarding sure The freshness of youth's fountain sweet and pure, And to all natural impulse crystal-clear: To service or command, to low and high Equal at once in magnanimity, The Great by right divine thou only art! Fair star, that crowns the front of England's morn, Royal with Nature's royalty inborn, And English to the very heart of heart!

A DANISH BARROW

Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap! --A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb, Whoe'er he was, I warrant him Upon whose mound the single sheep Browses and tinkles in the sun, Within the narrow vale alone.

Lie still, old Dane! This restful scene Suits well thy centuries of sleep: The soft brown roots above thee creep, The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen, And,--vain memento of the spot,-- The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.

Lie still!--Thy mother-land herself Would know thee not again: no more The Raven from the northern shore Hails the bold crew to push for pelf, Through fire and blood and slaughter'd kings, 'Neath the black terror of his wings.

And thou,--thy very name is lost! The peasant only knows that here Bold Alfred scoop'd thy flinty bier, And pray'd a foeman's prayer, and tost His auburn, head, and said 'One more Of England's foes guards England's shore,'

And turn'd and pass'd to other feats, And left thee in thine iron robe, To circle with the circling globe, While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats The giant warrior to a crust Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.

HASTINGS

October 14: 1066

'Gyrth, is it dawn in the sky that I see? or is all the sky blood? Heavy and sore was the fight in the North: yet we fought for the good. O but--Brother 'gainst brother!--'twas hard!--Now I come with a will To baste the false bastard of France, the hide of the tanyard and mill! Now on the razor-edge lies England the priceless, the prize! God aiding, the Raven at Stamford we smote; One stroke more for the land here I strike and devote!'

Red with fresh breath on her lips came the dawn; and Harold uprose; Kneels as man before God; then takes his long pole-axe, and goes Where round their woven wall, tough ash-palisado, they crowd; Mightily cleaves and binds, to his comrades crying aloud 'Englishmen stalwart and true, But one word has Harold for you! When from the field the false foreigners run, Stand firm in your castle, and all will be won!

'Now, with God o'er us, and Holy Rood, arm!'--And he ran for his spear: But Gyrth held him back, 'mong his brothers Gyrth the most honour'd, most dear: 'Go not, Harold! thine oath is against thee! the Saints look askance: I am not king; let me lead them, me only: mine be the chance!' --'No! The leader must lead! Better that Harold should bleed! To the souls I appeal, not the dust of the tomb:-- King chosen of Edward and England, I come!'

Over Heathland surge banners and lances, three armies; William the last, Clenching his mace; Rome's gonfanon round him Rome's majesty cast: O'er his Bretons Fergant, o'er the hireling squadrons Montgomery lords, Jerkin'd archers, and mail-clads, and horsemen with pennons and swords:-- --England, in threefold array, Anchor, and hold them at bay, Firm set in your own wooden walls! and the wave Of high-crested Frenchmen will break on their grave.

So to the palisade on! There, Harold and Leofwine and Gyrth Stand like a triple Thor, true brethren in arms as in birth: And above the fierce standards strain at their poles as they flare on the gale; One, the old Dragon of Wessex, and one, a Warrior in mail. 'God Almighty!' they cry! 'Haro!' the Northmen reply:-- As when eagles are gather'd and loud o'er the prey, Shout! for 'tis England the prize of the fray!

And as when two lightning-clouds tilt, between them an arrowy sleet Hisses and darts; till the challenging thunders are heard, and they meet; Across fly javelins and serpents of flame: green earth and blue sky Blurr'd in the blind tornado:--so now the battle goes high. Shearing through helmet and limb Glaive-steel and battle-axe grim: As the flash of the reaper in summer's high wheat, King Harold mows horseman and horse at his feet.

O vainly the whirlwind of France up the turf to the palisade swept: Shoulder to shoulder the Englishmen stand, and the shield-wall is kept:-- As, in a summer to be, when England and she yet again Strove for the sovranty, firm stood our squares, through the pitiless rain Death rain'd o'er them all day; --Happier, not braver than they Who on Senlac e'en yet their still garrison keep, Sleeping a long Marathonian sleep!

'Madmen, why turn?' cried the Duke,--for the horsemen recoil from the slope; 'Behold me! I live!'--and he lifted the ventayle; 'before you is hope: Death, not safety, behind!'--and he spurs to the centre once more, Lion-like leaps on the standard and Harold: but Gyrth is before! 'Down! He is down!' is the shout: 'On with the axes! Out, Out!' --He rises again; the mace circles its stroke; Then falls as the thunderbolt falls on the oak.

--Gyrth is crush'd, and Leofwine is crush'd; yet the shields hold their wall: 'Edith alone of my dear ones is left me, and dearest of all! Edith has said she would seek me to-day when the battle is done; Her love more precious alone than kingdoms and victory won; O for the sweetness of home! O for the kindness to come!' Then around him again the wild war-dragons roar, And he drinks the red wine-cup of battle once more.

--'Anyhow from their rampart to lure them, to shatter the bucklers and wall, Acting a flight,' in his craft thought William, and sign'd to recall His left battle:--O countrymen! slow to be roused! roused, always, as then, Reckless of life or death, bent only to quit you like men!-- As bolts from the bow-string they go, Whirl them and hurl them below, Where the deep foss yawns for the foe in his course, Piled up and brimming with horseman and horse.

As when October's sun, long caught in a curtain of gray, With a flood of impatient crimson breaks out, at the dying of day, And trees and green fields, the hills and the skies, are all steep'd in the stain;-- So o'er the English one hope flamed forth, one moment,--in vain! As hail when the corn-fields are deep, Down the fierce arrow-points sweep: Now the basnets of France o'er the palisade frown; The shield-fort is shatter'd; the Dragon is down.

O then there was dashing and dinting of axe and of broad-sword and spear: Blood crying out to blood: and Hatred that casteth out fear! Loud where the fight is the loudest, the slaughter-breath hot in the air, O what a cry was that!--the cry of a nation's despair! --Hew down the best of the land! Down them with mace and with brand! The fell foreign arrow has crash'd to the brain; England with Harold the Englishman slain!

Yet they fought on for their England! of ineffaceable fame Worthy, and stood to the death, though the greedy sword, like a flame, Bit and bit yet again in the solid ranks, and the dead Heap where they die, and hills of foemen about them are spread:-- --Hew down the heart of the land, There, to a man, where they stand! Till night with her blackness uncrimsons the stain, And the merciful shroud overshadows our slain.

Heroes unburied, unwept!--But a wan gray thing in the night Like a marsh-wisp flits to and fro through the blood-lake, the steam of the fight; Turning the bodies, exploring the features with delicate touch; Stumbling as one that finds nothing: but now!--as one finding too much: Love through mid-midnight will see: Edith the fair! It is he! Clasp him once more, the heroic, the dear! Harold was England: and Harold lies here.

DEATH IN THE FOREST

August 2: 1100

Where the greenwood is greenest At gloaming of day, Where the twelve-antler'd stag Faces boldest at bay; Where the solitude deepens, Till almost you hear The blood-beat of the heart As the quarry slips near; His comrades outridden With scorn in the race, The Red King is hallooing His bounds to the chase.

What though the Wild Hunt Like a whirlwind of hell Yestereve ran the forest, With baying and yell:-- In his cups the Red heathen Mocks God to the face; --'In the devil's name, shoot; Tyrrell, ho!--to the chase!'

--Now with worms for his courtiers He lies in the narrow Cold couch of the chancel! --But whence was the arrow?

His sin goes before him, The lust and the pride; And the curses of England Breathe hot at his side. And the desecrate walls Of the Evil-wood shrine Lo, he passes--unheeding Dark vision and sign:--

--Now with worms for his courtiers He lies in the narrow Cold couch of the chancel: --But whence was the arrow?

Then a shudder of death Flicker'd fast through the wood:-- And they found the Red King Red-gilt in his blood. What wells up in his throat? Is it cursing, or prayer? Was it Henry, or Tyrrell, Or demon, who there Has dyed the fell tyrant Twice crimson in gore, While the soul disincarnate Hunts on to hell-door?

--Ah! friendless in death! Rude forest-hands fling On the charcoaler's wain What but now was the king! And through the long Minster The carcass they bear, And huddle it down Without priest, without prayer:--

Now with worms for his courtiers He lies in the narrow Cold couch of the chancel: --But whence was the arrow?

EDITH OF ENGLAND

--The bravest knight may fail in fight; The red rust edge the sword; The king his crown in dust lay down; But Love is always Lord!

King Henry at her feet flings down, His helmet ringing loudly:-- His kisses worship Edith's hand; 'Wilt thou be Queen of all the land?' --O red she blush'd and proudly! Red as the crimson girdle bound Beneath her gracious breast; Red as the silken scarf that flames Above his lion-crest. She lifts and casts the cloister-veil All on the cloister-floor:-- The novice maids of Romsey smile, And think of love once more.

'Well, well, to blush!' the Abbess cried, 'The veil and vow deriding That rescued thee, in baby days, From insolence of Norman gaze, In pure and holy hiding. --O royal child of South and North, Malcolm and Margaret, The promised bride of Heaven art thou, And Heaven will not forget! What recks it, if an alien King Encoronet thy brow, Or if the false Italian priest Pretend to loose the vow?'

--For though the knight may fail in fight, The red rust edge the sword, The king his crown in dust lay down, Yet Love is always Lord!

A CRUSADER'S TOMB

Unnamed, unknown:--his hands across his breast Set in sepulchral rest, In yon low cave-like niche the warrior lies, --A shrine within a shrine,-- Full of gray peace, while day to darkness dies.

Then the forgotten dead at midnight come And throng their chieftain's tomb, Murmuring the toils o'er which they toil'd, alive, The feats of sword and love; And all the air thrills like a summer hive.

--How so, thou say'st!--This is the poet's right! He looks with larger sight Than they who hedge their view by present things, The small, parochial world Of sight and touch: and what he sees, he sings.

The steel-shell'd host, that, gleaming as it turns, Like autumn lightning burns, A moment's azure, the fresh flags that glance As cornflowers o'er the corn, Till war's stern step show like a gala dance,

And find their own, life-wearied:--Motley band! O! ere they quit the Land How maim'd, how marr'd, how changed from all that pride In which so late they left Orwell or Thames, with sails out-swelling wide

And music tuneable with the timing oar Clear heard from shore to shore; All Europe streaming to the mystic East! --Now on their sun-smit ranks The dusky squadrons close in vulture-feast,

And that fierce Day-star's blazing ball their sight Sears with excess of light; Or through dun sand-clouds the blue scimitar's edge Slopes down like fire from heaven, Mowing them as the thatcher mows the sedge.

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