XXII.

Scarce was the motion needed by his band,

An hundred swords from out their scabbards sprung,
And wildly whirl'd in many a brawny hand,

A serried grove of spears aloft were swung,
And, o'er her scornful brow suspended hung;
And now, full near was cast a fouler dye

On William's crest, than ever Minstrel sung—
When, lo! a train so sad approached them nigh,
Down dropp'd each threatening arm, grew dim each pitying eye.

XXIII.

A troop of weeping maidens, clad in white,
Huddled like birds when falcons are abroad
Stumble the corses o'er, in pale affright—
Or, blind with grief, slip in the gory sod,
Oh! path unmeet by maiden to be trod !

What make these gentle dames in such a place ?
And she, whose peerless form bent with a load

Of grief, that veils but cannot hide each grace—
What means her anxious gaze in each dead warrior's face?

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,
Dashing in phrenzied haste the rich array
Of massy curls from off her beaming brow,
She flung her pale form, like a wreath of snow,
Down by the side of a dead Saxon Chief!
And now her lips to every blood-gout grow-
Now upward looks she, with a shriek of grief,
Then to the corpse she turns, still seeking some relief.

XXVII.

Her eye had seen what none but love could see,
She felt what none but loving hearts can feel;
Tho' gashed her Harold's frame, it cannot be
So all defaced by the destroying steel,

But that to her the lineaments reveal

Her Warrior's face and form, and brow of pride—
Death on that brow hath set his solemn seal :

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—
Fearful the still frame of the murder'd Knight,

Yea, fearful the pale form beside him laid,

Yet beautiful the love she there displayed―

Love which no Change, Decay, nor Death could sever;
Her swan-white neck, in heavenly grace arrayed,

Bends sadly o'er his corse, as tho' Time never
Might her sweet form decay, or her from him dissever.

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 :
"Here, on this spot an Abbey shall be built-
Here shall the tear flow still, as now it flows,

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,
Fair Edith and her train passed weeping by,
Each Norman sate, unhelmed, upon his horse,
Low louting, half in knightly courtesy,
And half to hide the moisture in his eye;

Even o'er the Conqueror's steel-bound swarthy cheek,
One sullen tear-drop roll'd reluctantly,

And Harold's Mother bow'd with gesture meek,
And turn'd with desolate heart her lonely home to seek.

XXXI.

The train pass'd by ;-and centuries have passed
Since then, and all that train are dead and gone!
The Conqueror perish'd,-Edith slept at last,—
Of that rich sculptur'd Abbey not a stone,
Altar, or architrave, to fame is known-
Its ruins perish'd!--but this simple page
Of true love's history hath all out-grown ;
And while such faith shall gentle hearts engage,
Fair Edith's name shall stand, beloved in every age.

THE FIRST OF MAY.

I.

Up, up, my heart! and frame thy fairest lay-
Awake! awake! from thy long sullen sleep;
Burst from those dreams of discontent away
Which over thee their baleful influence keep,
And in the hues of night thy fancies steep.
Waken to song, my long-neglected lyre!
Let me again thy chords in rapture sweep,
Till the shy Muse some melody inspire,

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,
Shalt thou alone be sad and silent found,

And torpid sit-the sepulchre of sound?

Forbid it, every generous impulse dear

With which the Minstrel's heart doth most abound;
Forbid it, Love! that guides the circling year,

Breathes in the breeze, and rolls through every radiant sphere.

D