CANTO FOURTH.

The moon was high, when,‘ mid the wildest wolds Of Holderness, where erst that structure vast, An idol-temple,in old heathen times, Frowned with gigantic shadow to the moon,

That oft had heard the dark song and the groans Of sacrifice, There the wan sisters met; They circled the rude stone, and called the dead,

And sung by turns their more terrific song: I looked in the seer's prophetic glass, And saw the deeds that should come to pass; From Carlisle-Wall to Flamborough Head,

The reeking soil was heaped with dead. The towns were stirring at dawn of day, And the children went out in the morn to play; The lark was singing on holt and hill;

I looked again, but the towns were still; The murdered child on the ground was thrown, And the lark was singing to heaven alone. I saw a famished mother lie,

Her lips were livid, and glazed her eye; The tempest was rising, and sang in the south, And I snatched the blade of grass from her mouth. By the rolling of the drums,

Hitherward King William comes! The night is struggling with the day — Hags of darkness, hence! away! William is in the north; the avenging sword

Descended like a whirlwind where he passed; Slaughter and Famine at his bidding wait, Like lank, impatient bloodhounds, till he cries, Pursue! Again the Norman banner floats

Triumphant on the citadel of York, Where, circled with the blazonry of arms, Amid his barons, William holds his state. The boy preserved from death, young Malet, kneels,

With folded hands; his father, mother kneel, Imploring clemency for Harold's sons; For Edmund most. Bareheaded Waltheof bends, And yields the keys! A breathless courier comes:

What tidings? O'er the seas the Danes are fled; Morcar and Edwin in Northumberland, Amidst its wildest mountains, seek to hide Their broken hopes — their troops are all dispersed.

Malcolm alone, and the boy Atheling, And the two sons of the dead Harold, wait The winds to bear them to the North away. Bid forth a thousand spearmen, William cried:

Now, by the resurrection, and the throne Of God, King Malcolm shall repent the hour He ere drew sword in England! Hence! away! The west wind blows, the boat is on the beach,

The clansmen all embarked, the pipe is heard, Whilst thoughtful Malcolm and young Atheling Linger the last upon the shore; and there Are Harold's children, the gray-headed monk,

Godwin, and Edmund, and poor Adela. Then Malcolm spoke: The lot is cast! oh, fly From this devoted land, and live with us, Amidst our lakes and mountains! Adela,

Atheling whispered, does thy heart say Yes? For in this world we ne'er may meet again. The brief hour calls — come, Adela, exclaimed Malcolm, and kindly took her hand. She looked

To heaven, and fell upon her knees, then rose, And answered: Sire, when my brave father fell, We three were exiles on a distant shore;

And never, or in solitude or courts, Was God forgotten — all is in his hand. When those whom I had loved from infancy Here joined the din of arms, I came with them;

With them I have partaken good and ill, Have in the self-same mother's lap been laid, The same eye gazed on us with tenderness, And the same mother prayed prosperity

Might still be ours through life! Alas! our lot How different! Yet let them go with you, I argue not — the first time in our lives,

If it be so, we here shall separate; Whatever fate betide, I will not go Till I have knelt upon my father's grave! ‘ Tis perilous to think, Atheling cried,

Most perilous — how‘ scape the Norman's eye? She turned, and with a solemn calmness said: If we should perish, at the hour of death My father will look down from heaven, and say,

Come, my poor child! oh, come where I am blessed! My brothers, seek your safety. Here I stand Resolved; and never will I leave these shores Till I have knelt upon my father's grave!

We never will forsake thee! Godwin cried. Let death betide, said Edmund, we will go, Yes! go with thee, or perish! As he spoke,

The pilot gave the signal. Then farewell! King Malcolm cried, friends lately met, and now To part for ever! and he kissed the cheek Of Adela, and took brave Godwin's hand

And Edmund's, and then said, almost in tears, It is not now too late! yet o'er my grave So might a duteous daughter weep! God speed Brave Malcolm to his father's land! they cried.

The ships beyond the promontory's point Were anchored, and the tide was ebbing fast. Then Ailric: Sire, not unforeseen by me Was this sad day. Oh! King of Scotland, hear!

I was a brother of that holy house Where Harold's bones are buried; from my vows I was absolved, and followed — for I loved His children — followed them through every fate.

My few gray hairs will soon descend in peace, When I shall be forgotten; but till then, My services, my last poor services, To them I have devoted, for the sake

Of him, their father, and my king, to whom All in this world I owed! Protect them, Lord, And bless them, when the turf is on my head; And, in their old age, may they sometimes think

Of Ailric, cold and shrouded in his grave, When summer smiles! Sire, listen whilst I pray One boon of thy compassion: not for me — I reck not whether vengeance wake or sleep —

But for the safety of this innocent maid I speak. South of the Humber, in a cave, Concealed amidst the rocks and tangled brakes, I have deposited some needful weeds

For this sad hour; for well, indeed, I knew, If all should fail, this maiden's last resolve, To kneel upon her father's grave, or die. For this I have provided; but the time

Is precious, and the sun is westering slow; The fierce eye of the lion may be turned Upon this spot to-morrow! Adela, Now hear your friend, your father! The fleet hour

Is passing, never to return: oh, seize The instant! Thou, King Malcolm, grant my prayer! If we embark, and leave the shores this night, The voice of fame will bruit it far and wide,

That Harold's children fled with thee, and sought A refuge in thy kingdom. None will know Our destination. In thy boat conveyed, We may be landed near the rocky cave;

The boat again ply to thy ships, and they Plough homeward the north seas, whilst we are left To fate. Again the pilot's voice was heard; And, o'er the sand-hills, an approaching file

Of Norman soldiers, with projected spears, Already seemed as rushing on their prey. Then Ailric took the hand of Adela; She and her brothers, and young Atheling,

And Scotland's king, are in one boat embarked. Meantime the sun sets red, and twilight shades The sinking hills. The solitary boat Has reached the adverse shore.

Here, then, we part! King Malcolm said; and every voice replied, God speed brave Malcolm to his father's land! Ailric, the brothers, and their sister, left

The boat; they stood upon the moonlit beach, Still listening to the sounds, as they grew faint, Of the receding oars, and watching still If one white streak at distance, as they dipped,

Were seen, till all was solitude around. Pensive, they sought a refuge for that night In the bleak ocean-cave. The morning dawns; The brothers have put off the plumes of war,

Dropping one tear upon the sword. Disguised In garb to suit their fortunes, they appear Like shipwrecked seamen of Armorica, By a Franciscan hermit through the land

Led to St Alban's shrine, to offer vows, Vows to the God who heard them in that hour When all beside had perished in the storm. Wrecked near his ocean-cave, an eremite

( So went the tale of their disastrous fate ) Sustained them, and now guides them through a land Of strangers. That fair boy was wont to sing Upon the mast, when the still ship went slow

Along the seas, in sunshine; and that garb Conceals the lovely, light-haired Adela. The cuckoo's note in the deep woods was heard When forth, they fared. At many a convent gate

They stood and prayed for shelter, and their pace Hastened, if, high amid the clouds, they marked Some solitary castle lift its brow Gray in the distance — hastened, so to reach,

Ere it grew dark, its hospitable towers. There the lithe minstrel sung his roundelay: Listen, lords and ladies bright! I can sing of many a knight

Who fought in paynim lands afar; Of Bevis, or of Iscapar. I have tales of wandering maids, And fairy elves in haunted glades,

Of phantom-troops that silent ride By the moonlit forest's side. I have songs ( fair maidens, hear! ) To warn the lovelorn lady's ear.

The choice of all my treasures take, And grant us food for pity's sake! When tired, at noon, by the white waterfall, In some romantic and secluded glen,

They sat, and heard the blackbird overhead Singing, unseen, a song, such as they heard In infancy.So every vernal morn Brought with it scents of flowers, or songs of birds,

Mingled with many shapings of old things, And days gone by. Then up again, to scale The airy mountain, and behold the plain Stretching below, and fading far away,

How beautiful; yet still to feel a tear Starting, even when it shone most beautiful, To think, Here, in the country of our birth, No rest is ours!

On, to our father's grave! So southward through the country they had passed Now many days, and casual shelter found In villages, or hermit's lonely cave,

Or castle, high embattled on the point Of some steep mountain, or in convent walls; For most with pity heard his song, and marked The countenance of the wayfaring boy;

Or when the pale monk, with his folded hands Upon his breast, prayed, For the love of God, Pity the poor, give alms; and bade them speed! And now, in distant light, the pinnacles

Of a gray fane appeared, whilst on the woods Still evening shed its parting light. Oh, say, Say, villager, what towers are those that rise Eastward beyond the alders?

Know ye not, He answered, Waltham Abbey? Harold there Is buried — he who in the fight was slain At Hastings! To the cheek of Adela

A deadly paleness came. On — let us on! Faintly she cried, and held her brother's arm, And hid her face a moment with her hand. And now the massy portal's sculptured arch

Before them rose. Say, porter, Ailric cried, Poor mariners, wrecked on the northern shores, Ask charity. Does aged Osgood live?

Tell him a poor Franciscan, wandering far, And wearied, for the love of God would ask His charity. Osgood came slowly forth;

The light that touched the western turret fell On his pale face. The pilgrim-father said: I am your brother Ailric — look on me! And these are Harold's children!

Whilst he spoke, Godwin, advancing, with emotion cried, We are his children! I am Godwin, this Is Edmund, and, lo! poor and in disguise,

Our sister! We would kneel upon his grave — Our father's! Come yet nearer, Osgood said, Yet nearer! and that instant Adela

Looked up, and wiping from her eyes a tear, Have you forgotten Adela? O God! The old man trembling cried, ye are indeed

Our benefactor's children! Adela, Edmund, brave Godwin! welcome to these walls — Welcome, my old companion! and he fell Upon the neck of Ailric, and both wept.

Then Osgood: Children of that honoured lord Who gave us all, go near and bless his grave. One parting sunbeam yet upon the floor Rested — it passed away, and darker gloom

Was gathering in the aisles. Each footstep's sound Was more distinctly heard, for all beside Was silent. Slow along the glimmering fane They passed, like shadows risen from the tombs.

The entrance-door was closed, lest aught intrude Upon the sanctity of this sad hour. The inner choir they enter, part in shade And part in light, for now the rising moon

Began to glance upon the shrines, and tombs, And pillars. Trembling through the windows high, One beam, a moment, on that cold gray stone Is flung — the word “Infelix " is scarce seen.

Behold his gravestone! Osgood said. Each eye Was turned. A while intent they gazed, then knelt Before the altar, on the marble stone! No sound was heard through all the dim expanse

Of the vast building, none but of the air That came in dying echoes up the aisle, Like whispers heard at the confessional. Thus Harold's children, hand in hand, knelt down —

Upon their father's grave knelt down, and prayed: Have mercy on his soul — have mercy, Lord! They knelt a lengthened space, and bowed their heads, Some natural tears they shed, and crossed their breasts;

Then rising slowly up, looked round, and saw A monk approaching near, unmarked before; And in the further distance the tall form As of a female. He who wore the hood

And habit of a monk approached and spoke: Brothers! beloved sister! know ye not These features?— and he raised his hood — Behold Me — me, your brother Marcus! whom these weeds,

Since last we met, have hidden from the world: Let me kneel with you here! When Adela Beheld him, she exclaimed, Oh! do we meet

Here, my lost brother, o'er a father's grave? You live, restored a moment in this world, To us as from the grave! And Godwin took His hand, and said, My brother, tell us all;

How have you lived unknown? Oh! tell us all! When in that grave our father, he replied, Was laid, ye fled, and I in this sad land Remained to cope with fortune. To these walls

I came, when Ailric, from his vows absolved, With you was wandering. None my lineage knew, Or name, but I some time had won regard From the superior. Osgood knew me not,

For with Earl Edwin I had lived from youth. To our superior thus I knelt and prayed: Sir, I beseech you, for the love of God, And of our Lady Mary, and St John,

You would receive me here to live and die Among you. What most moved my heart to take The vows was this, that here, from day to day, From year to year, within the walls he raised,

I might behold my father's grave. This eve I sat in the confessional, unseen, When you approached. I scarce restrained the tear, From many recollections, when I heard

A tale of sorrow and of sin. Come near, Woman of woe!— and a wan woman stood Before them, tall and stately; her dark eyes Shone, as the uncertain lamp cast a brief glare,

And showed her neck, and raven hair, and lips Moving. She spoke not, but advanced and knelt — She, too — on Harold's grave; then prayed aloud, O God, be merciful to him — and me!

Who art thou? Godwin cried. Ah! know ye not The wretched Editha? No children's love Could equal mine! I trod among the dead —

Did I not, fathers?— trod among the dead From corse to corse, or saw men's dying eyes Fixed upon mine, and heard such groans as yet Rive, with remembrance, my torn heart: I found

Him who rests here, where then he lay in blood! When he was buried, I beheld the rites At distance, and with broken heart retired To the wild woods; there I have lived unseen

From that sad hour. Late when the tempest rocked, At midnight, a proud soldier shelter sought In my lone cell;‘ twas when the storm was heard Through the deep forest, and he too had knelt

At Harold's grave! Who was it? He! the king! Say, fathers, was it not the hand of God That led his footsteps there!— but has he learned Humility? Oh! ask this bleeding land!

Last night a phantom came to me in dreams, And a voice said, Come, visit my cold grave! I came, by some mysterious impulse led; I heard the even song, and when the sound

Had ceased, and all departed, save one monk, Who stood and gazed upon this grave alone, I prayed that he would hear me, at this hour, Confess my secret sins, for my full heart

Was labouring. It was Harold's son who sat In the confessional, to me unknown; But all is now revealed — and lo! I stand Before you!

As she spoke, a thrilling awe Came to each heart: loftier she seemed to stand In the dim moonlight; sorrowful, yet stern, Her aspect; and her breast was seen to beat;

Her eyes were fixed, and shone with fearful light. She raised her right hand, and her dark hair fell Upon her neck, whilst all, scarce breathing, heard: My spirit labours! she exclaimed. This night!

The tomb! the altar! Ha! the vision strains My senses to oppression! Marked ye not The trodden throne restored — the Saxon line Of England's monarchs bursting through the gloom?

Lady, I look on thee! In distant years, Even from the Northern throne which thou shalt share, A warrior-monarch shall arise, whose arm, In concert with this country, now bowed low,

Shall tear the eagle from a conqueror's grasp, Far greater than this Norman! Spare, O God! My burning brain! Then, with a shriek, she fell,

Insensible, upon the Saxon's grave! They bore her from the fane; and Godwin said, Peace, peace be with her, now and evermore! He, taking Marcus by the hand, Yet here

Thou shalt behold, behold from day to day, This honoured grave! But where in the great world Shall be thy place of rest, poor Adela? O God, be ever with her! Marcus cried,

With her, and you, my brothers! Here we part, Never to meet again. Whate'er your fate, I shall remember with a brother's love, And pray for you; but all my spirit rests

In other worlds — in worlds, oh! not like this! Ye may return to this sad scene when I Am dust and ashes; ye may yet return, And visit this sad spot; perhaps when age

Or grief has brought such change of heart as now I feel, then shall you look upon my grave, And shed one tear for him whose latest prayer Will be: Oh, bless you! bless my sister, Lord!

Then Adela, with lifted look composed: Father, it is performed,— the duty vowed When we returned to this devoted land, The last sad duty of a daughter's love!

And now I go in peace — go to a world Of sorrow, conscious that a father's voice Speaks to my soul, and that thine eye, O God! Whate'er the fortunes of our future days,

Is o'er us. Thou, direct our onward road! O'er the last Saxon's grave, old Osgood raised His hands and prayed: Father of heaven and earth,

All is beneath Thine eye!‘ Tis ours to bend In silence. Children of misfortune, loved, Revered — children of him who raised these roofs, No home is found for you in this sad land;

And none, perhaps, may know the spot, or shed A tear upon the earth where ye are laid! So saying, on their heads he placed his hands, And blessed them all; but, after pause, rejoined:

‘ Tis dangerous lingering here — the fire-eyed lynx Would lap your blood! Westward, beyond the Lea, There is a cell where ye may rest to-night. The portal opened; on the battlements

The moonlight shone, silent and beautiful! Before them lay their path through the wide world — The nightingales were singing as they passed; And, looking back upon the glimmering towers,

They, led by Ailric, and with thoughts on heaven, Through the lone forest held their pensive way.