“Know ye the land where the bright orange glows!” Oh! rather know ye not the land, beloved Of Liberty, where your brave fathers bled! The land of the white cliffs, where every cot
Whose smoke goes up in the clear morning sky, On the green hamlet's edge, stands as secure As the proud Norman castle's bannered keep! Oh! shall the poet paint a land of slaves,
( Albeit, that the richest colours warm His tablet, glowing from the master's hand,) And thee forget, his country — thee, his home! Fair Italy! thy hills and olive-groves
A lovelier light empurples, or when morn Streams o'er the cloudless van of Apennine, Or more majestic eve, on the wide scene Of columns, temples, arches, and aqueducts,
Sits, like reposing Glory, and collects Her richest radiance at that parting hour; While distant domes, touched by her hand, shine out More solemnly,‘ mid the gray monuments
That strew the illustrious plain; yet say, can these, Even when their pomp is proudest, and the sun Sinks o'er the ruins of immortal Rome, A holy interest wake, intense as that
Which visits his full heart, who, severed long, And home returning, sees once more the light Shine on the land where his forefathers sleep; Sees its white cliffs at distance, and exclaims:
There I was born, and there my bones shall rest! Then, oh! ye bright pavilions of the East, Ye blue Italian skies, and summer seas, By marble cliffs high-bounded, throwing far
A gray illumination through the haze Of orient morning; ye, Etruscan shades, Where Pan's own pines o'er Valambrosa wave; Scenes where old Tiber, for the mighty dead
As mourning, heavily rolls; or Anio Flings its white foam; or lucid Arno steals On gently through the plains of Tuscany; Be ye the impassioned themes of other song.
Nor mine, thou wondrous Western World, to call The thunder of thy cataracts, or paint The mountains and the vast volcano range Of Cordilleras, high above the stir
Of human things; lifting to middle air Their snows in everlasting solitude; Upon whose nether crags the vulture, lord Of summits inaccessible, looks down,
Unhearing, when the thunder dies below! Nor,‘ midst the irriguous valleys of the south, Where Chili spreads her green lap to the sea, Now pause I to admire the bright blue bird,
Brightest and least of all its kind, that spins Its twinkling flight, still humming o'er the flowers, Like a gem of flitting light! To these adieu!
Yet ere thy melodies, my harp, are mute For ever, whilst the stealing day goes out With slow-declining pace, I would essay One patriot theme, one ancient British song:
So might I fondly dream, when the cold turf Is heaped above my head, and carping tongues Have ceased, some tones, Old England, thy green hills Might then remember.
Time has reft the shrine Where the last Saxon, canonized, lay, And every trace has vanished,like the light That from the high-arched eastern window fell,
With broken sunshine on his marble tomb — So have they passed; and silent are the choirs, That to his spirit sang eternal rest; And scattered are his bones who raised those walls,
Where, from the field of blood slowly conveyed, His mangled corse, with torch and orison, Before the altar, and in holy earth, Was laid! Yet oft I muse upon the theme;
And now, whilst solemn the slow curfew tolls, Years and dim centuries seem to unfold Their shroud, as at the summons; and I think How sad that sound on every English heart
Smote, when along those darkening vales, where Lea Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it broke First on the silence of the night, far heard Through the deep forest! Phantoms of the past,
Ye gather round me! Voices of the dead, Ye come by fits! And now I hear, far off, Faint Eleesons swell, whilst to the fane The long procession, and the pomp of death,
Moves visible; and now one voice is heard From a vast multitude, Harold, farewell! Farewell, and rest in peace! That sable car Bears the last Saxon to his grave; the last
From Hengist, of the long illustrious line That swayed the English sceptre. Hark! a cry! ‘ Tis from his mother, who, with frantic mien, Follows the bier: with manly look composed,
Godwin, his eldest-born, and Adela, Her head declined, her hand upon her brow Beneath the veil, supported by his arm, Sorrowing succeed! Lo! pensive Edmund there
Leads Wolfe, the least and youngest, by the hand! Brothers and sisters, silent and in tears, Follow their father to the dust, beneath Whose eye they grew. Last and alone, behold,
Magnus,subduing the deep sigh, with brow Of sterner acquiescence. Slowly pace The sad remains of England's chivalry, The few whom Hastings’ field of carnage spared,
To follow their slain monarch's hearse this night, Whose corse is borne beneath the escutcheoned pall, To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train, Imagination thus embodies it,
Moves onward to the abbey's western porch, Whose windows and retiring aisles reflect The long funereal lights. Twelve stoled monks, Each with a torch, and pacing, two and two,
Along the pillared nave, with crucifix Aloft, begin the supplicating chant, Intoning “Miserere Domine.” Now the stone coffins in the earth are laid
Of Harold, and of Leofrine, and Girth, Brave brethren slain in one disastrous day. And hark! again the monks and choristers Sing, pacing round the grave-stone, “Requiem
Eternam dona iis.” To his grave So was King Harold borne, within those walls His bounty raised: his children knelt and wept, Then slow departed, never in this world,
Perhaps, to meet again. But who is she, Her dark hair streaming on her brow, her eye Wild, and her breast deep-heaving? She beheld At distance the due rites, nor wept, nor spake,
And now is gone! Alas! from that sad hour, By many fates, all who that hour had met Were scattered. Godwin, Edmund, Adela,
Exiles in Denmark, there a refuge found From England's stormy fortunes. Three long years Have passed; again they tread their native land. The Danish armament beneath the Spurn
Is anchored. Twenty thousand men at arms Follow huge Waltheof, on his barbed steed, His battle-axe hung at the saddle-bow; Morcar and Edwin, English earls, are there,
With red-cross banner, and ten thousand men From Ely and Northumberland; they raise The death-song of defiance, and advance With bows of steel. From Scotland's mountain-glens,
From sky-blue lochs, and the wild highland heaths, From Lothian villages, along the banks Of Forth, King Malcolm leads his clansmen bold, And, dauntless as romantic, bids unfurl
The banner of St Andrew; by his side Mild Edgar Atheling, a stripling boy, His brother, heir to England's throne, appears; The dawn of youth on his fresh cheek; and, lo!
The broadswords glitter as the tartaned troops March to the pibroch's sound. The Danish trump Brays like a gong, heard to the holts and towns Of Lincolnshire.
With crests and shields the same, A lion frowning on each helmet's cone, Like the two brothers famed in ancient song, Godwin and Edmund, sons of Harold, lead
From Scandinavia and the Baltic isles The impatient Northmen to the embattled host On Humber's side. The standards wave in air, Drums roll, and glittering columns file, and arms
Flash to the morn, and bannered-trumpets bray, Heralds or armourers from tent to tent Are hurrying; crests, and spears, and steel-bows gleam, Far as the eye can reach; barbed horses neigh,
Their mailed riders wield the battle-axe, Or draw the steel-bows with a clang; and, hark! From the vast moving host is heard one shout, Conquest or death!— as now the sun ascends,
And on the bastioned walls of Ravenspur Flings its first beam — one mighty shout is heard, Perish the Norman! Soldiers, on!— to York!
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