William, on his imperial throne, at York Is seated, clad in steel, all but his face, From casque to spur. His brow yet wears a frown, And his eyes show the unextinguished fire
Of steadfast vengeance, as his inmost heart Yet labours, like the ocean after storm. His sword unsheathed appears, which none besides Can wield; his sable beard, full and diffused,
Below the casque is spread; the lion ramps Upon his mailed breast, engrailed with gold. Behind him stand his barons, in dark file Ranged, and each feature hid beneath the helms;
Spears, with escutcheoned banners on their points, Above their heads are raised. Though all alike Are cased in armour, know ye not that knight Who next, behind the king, seems more intent
To listen, and a loftier stature bears? ‘ Tis bold Montgomerie; and he who kneels Before the seat, his armour all with gules Chequered, and chequered his small banneret,
Is Lord Fitzalain. William holds a scroll In his right hand, and to Fitzalain speaks: All these, the forfeited domains and land Of Edwin and of Morcar, traitor-lords,
From Ely to the banks of Trent, I give To thee and thine! Fitzalian lowly knelt, And kissed his iron hand; then slowly rose,
Whilst all the barons shouted, Live the king! This is thy song, William the Conqueror, The tale of Harold's children, and the grave Of the last Saxon! The huge fortress frowns
Still on the Thames, where William's banner waved, Though centuries year after year have passed, As the stream flows for ever at its feet; Harold, thy bones are scattered, and the tomb
That held them, where the Lea's lorn wave delayed, Is seen no more; and the high fane, that heard The Eleeson pealing for thy soul, A fragment stands, and none will know the spot
Where those whom thou didst love in dust repose, Thy children! But the tale may not be vain, If haply it awake one duteous thought Of filial tenderness.
That day of blood Is passed, like a dark spectre: but it speaks Even to the kingdoms of the earth: Behold
The hand of God! From that dark day of blood, When Vengeance triumphed, and the curfew knolled, England, thy proud majestic policy Slowly arose! Through centuries of shade
The pile august of British liberty Towered, till behold it stand in clearer light Illustrious. At its base, fell Tyranny Gnashes his teeth, and drops the broken sword;
Whilst Freedom, Justice, to the cloudless skies Uplift their radiant forms, and Fame aloft Sounds o'er the subject seas, from east to west, From north to south, her trumpet — England, live!
And rule, till waves and worlds shall be no more!
Cookies on Poetry Cove