XXII. Scarce was the motion needed by his band, An hundred swords from out their scabbards sprung, A serried grove of spears aloft were swung, On William's crest, than ever Minstrel sung— XXIII. A troop of weeping maidens, clad in white, What make these gentle dames in such a place ? Of grief, that veils but cannot hide each grace— XXIV. 'Twas beauteous Edith, Harold's ladie love, Come forth to seek the body of her Lord : The eyes of Monks and Mothers false may prove, Yet shall the mangled frame to her accord Some trace to tell the features she adored ; For, oh ! the glance of love is sharp and keen, Nor can the shattering spear or piercing sword Conceal the brow whose every line hath been Graven on love's inmost heart, in many a passionate scene. XXV. One brief glance showed her lover's murderers nigh, Yet did no terror shake her stedfast soul Sorrow had made her fearless; in her eye And o'er her cheek no gleam of vengeance stole, Even Hate was not,-deep Sorrow claimed the whole; What to her gentle breast could vengeance bring? Could it win back her love from Death's controul? "Sweet Harold is no more!"—this murmuring, With patient brow she turned to seek the slaughtered King. XXVI. Scarce with her maidens had she turn'd away Some score of steps, ere with a cry of woe, XXVII. Her eye had seen what none but love could see, But that to her the lineaments reveal Her Warrior's face and form, and brow of pride— And is it thus she seeks his chilly side, Who clasped her late so close, his warm and blooming bride? XXVIII. It was a fearful, yet a beauteous sight, That murder'd King, and lovely loving maid— Yea, fearful the pale form beside him laid, Yet beautiful the love she there displayed― Love which no Change, Decay, nor Death could sever; Bends sadly o'er his corse, as tho' Time never XXIX. Soon as her agony of soul was o'er, With slow and stately motion she arose Kneel'd with clasp'd hands her lover's corse before, And, heaven-ward gazing, spake amid her foes, Who, with relenting hearts beheld her woes : Upon the sod where Harold's blood was spilt, "Till his dear Soul in Heaven be cleans'd from every guilt." XXX. The friendly Monks bore off the royal corse, Even o'er the Conqueror's steel-bound swarthy cheek, And Harold's Mother bow'd with gesture meek, XXXI. The train pass'd by ;-and centuries have passed THE FIRST OF MAY. I. Up, up, my heart! and frame thy fairest lay- May touch the simple heart;-'tis all that I require. II. Shalt thou refuse to breathe the song of praise, While universal Nature smiles around? While songsters numberless their Pæans raise, And torpid sit-the sepulchre of sound? Forbid it, every generous impulse dear With which the Minstrel's heart doth most abound; Breathes in the breeze, and rolls through every radiant sphere. D |