CONCLUSION.

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!