Around, around, around, Troop and dance we to the sound, Whilst mocking imps cry, Ho! ho! ho! On earth there will be woe! more woe!
Arise, swart fiends,‘ tis I command; Burst your caves, and rock the land. Loud tempests, sweep the conscious wood! I scent from earth more blood! more blood!
When the wounded cry, And the craven die, I will ride on the spires, And the red volumes of the bursting fires.
Around, around, around, Dance we to the dismal sound Of dying cries and mortal woe, Whilst mocking imps shout, Ho! ho! ho!
Hear! Spirits that our‘ hests perform In the earthquake or the storm, Appear, appear!
A fire is lighted — the pale smoke goes up; Obscure, terrific features through the clouds Are seen, and a wild laughter heard, We come! I have syllables of dread;
They can wake the dreamless dead. I, a dark sepulchral song, That can lead hell's phantom-throng. Like a nightmare I will rest
This night upon King William's breast! Around, around, around, Dance we to the dismal sound Of dying shrieks and mortal woe,
Whilst antic imps shout, Ho! ho! ho! They vanished, and the earth shook where they stood. That night, King William first within the Tower Received his vassal barons; in that Tower
Which oft since then has echoed to night-shrieks Of secret murder, or the lone lament. Now other sounds were heard, for on this night Its canopied and vaulted chambers rang
With minstrelsy; whilst sounds of long acclaim Re-echoed, from the loopholes, o'er the Thames The drawbridge, and the ponderous cullis-gate, Frowned on the moat; the flanking towers aspired
O'er the embattled walls, where proudly waved The Norman banner. William, laugh to scorn The murmurs of conspiracy and hate That round thee gather, like the storms of night
Mustering, when murder hides her visored mien! Now, what hast thou to fear! Let the fierce Dane Into the centre of thy kingdom sweep, With hostile armament, even like the tide
Of the hoarse Humber, on whose waves he rode! Let foes confederate; let one voice of hate, One cry of instant vengeance, one deep curse Be heard, from Waltham woods to Holderness!
Let Waltheof, stern in steel; let Hereward, Impatient as undaunted, flash their swords; Let the boy Edgar, backed by Scotland's king, Advance his feeble claim, and don his casque,
Whose brows might better a blue bonnet grace; Let Edwin and vindictive Morcar join The sons of Harold,— what hast thou to fear? London's sole Tower might laugh their strength to scorn!
Upon that night when York's proud castle fell, Here William held his court. The torches glared On crest and crozier. Knights and prelates bowed Before their sovereign. He, his knights and peers
Surveying with a stern complacency, Inclined not from his seat, o'ercanopied With golden valance, woven by no hand, Save of the Queen. Yet calm his countenance
Shone, and his brow a dignified repose Marked kingly; high his forehead, and besprent With dark hair, interspersed with gray; his eye Glanced amiable, chiefly when the light
Of a brief smile attempered majesty. His beard was dark and heavy, yet diffused, Low as the lion ramping on his breast Engrailed upon the mail.
Odo approached, And knelt, then rising, placed the diadem Upon his brow, with laurels intertwined. Again the voice of acclamation rang,
And from the galleries a hundred harps Resounded Roland's song! Long live the King! The barons, and the prelates, and the knights, Long live the Conqueror! cried; a god on earth!
That instant the high vaulted chamber shook As with a blast from heaven, and all was mute Around him, and the very fortress rocked, As it would topple on their heads. He rose
Disturbed and frowning, for tumultuous thoughts Crowded like night upon his heart; then waved His hand. The barons, abbots, knights retire. Behold him now alone! before a lamp
A crucifix appears; upon the ground Lies the same sword that Hastings’ battle dyed Deep to the hilt in gore; behold, he kneels And prays, Thou only, Lord, art ever great;
Have mercy on my sins! The crucifix Shook as he spoke, shook visibly, and, hark! There is a low moan, as of dying men, At distance heard.
Then William first knew fear. He had heard tumults of the battle-field, The noise, the glorious hurrahs, and the clang Of trumpets round him, but no sound like this
Ere smote with unknown terror on his heart, As if the eye of God that moment turned And saw it beating. Rising slow, he flung
Upon a couch his agitated limbs; The lamp was near him; on the ground his sword And helmet lay; short troubled slumbers stole, And darkly rose the spirit of his dream.
He saw a field of blood,— it passed away; A glittering palace rose, with mailed men Thronged, and the voice of multitudes was heard Acclaiming: suddenly the sounds had ceased,
The glittering palace vanished, and, behold! Long winding cloisters, echoing to the chant Of stoled fathers; and the mass-song ceased — Then a dark tomb appeared, and, lo! a shape
As of a phantom-king! Nearer it came, And nearer yet, in silence, through the gloom. Advancing — still advancing: the cold glare
Of armour shone as it approached, and now It stands o'er William's couch! The spectre gazed A while, then lifting its dark visor up — Horrible vision!— shewed a grisly wound
Deep in its forehead, and therein appeared Gouts, as yet dropping from an arrow's point Infixed! And that red arrow's deadly barb The shadow drew, and pointed at the breast
Of William; and the blood dropped on his breast; And through his steely arms one drop of blood Came cold as death's own hand upon his heart! Whilst a deep voice was heard, Now sleep in peace,
I am avenged! Starting, he exclaimed, Hence, horrid phantom! Ho! Fitzalain, ho! Montgomerie! Each baron, with a torch,
Before him stood. By dawn of day, he cried, We will to horse. What passes in our thoughts We shall unfold hereafter. By St Anne, Albeit, not ten thousand phantoms sent
By the dead Harold can divert our course, They may bear timely warning. ‘ Tis yet night — Give me a battle-song ere daylight dawns;
The song of Roland, or of Charlemagne — Or our own fight at Hastings. Torches! ho! And let the gallery blaze with lights! Awake,
Harpers of Normandy, awake! By Heaven, I will not sleep till your full chords ring out The song of England's conquest! Torches! ho! He spoke. Again the blazing gallery
Echoed the harpers’ song. Old Eustace led The choir, and whilst the king paced to and fro, Thus rose the bold, exulting symphony.
Cookies on Poetry Cove