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Is mocked but by a mimic majesty ;

And northern insult is a just reward

For perjur'd perfidy, and fair domains,
Unwon of right or battle, yielded up
By cowards for the homage of a name.

But soon the brave adventurers fiery souls Were tamed to rest in smiling Normandy, And custom smooth'd away the rougher edge Of savage life, and the fast ice-bound night Of northern superstition fairly dawned

With heaven's own light, and warriors learnt to look
On peace and graven laws without a scorn:

Yet the wild courage bred in Norway's hills
Slept not inactive; witness for its fame
The deeds of Rainulf in fair Italy,

And 'William's iron arm, and trembling hosts
Of turban'd Arabs rent like summer clouds
Before one little clump of Norman spears.

And that brave warrior band which Robert led—

Robert, far-famed for lofty form, and limbs

Of giant strength and fiery flashing eyes-
Led from the scarce won fields of Normandy
Through pathless snows, unknown adventurers,
But trusting to their hearts and ready swords,
To win them lands and found a kingdom, where
Vesuvius canopies the plain with fire.

But all the records writ on Hist'ry's page

Are but the names of individual men,

3 Charles the Foolish, purchased peace and homage from the Normans with the lands of Bretagne, to which he had no claim.

at the ceremony of paying homage is well known.

4 William de Hauteville.

The humiliation of the king

5 Robert Guiscard who founded the Norman kingdom of Naples.

Whose lives have passed away like shaken sands
In the great hour-glass of eternity.

Names carved but higher than their fellows are,
Seen black from greater evil, or more bright
Above the darker world, as when the dawn
Crowns with a silver sheen the placid tops
Of some huge pine grove, while all deep beneath,
The dark night slumbers on in silent gloom.
And who could hear of Normans, and forget
The Conqueror's name? For was it not rung out
Upon the solemn night wind when we heard,
With large eyes of a childish wondering fear,
Deep murmur'd memories of other days,
Of Freedom's fight and Norman victory, die
In sad reverberations through the gloom?
And on the throne won by his sword, has sat
A long line of his offspring, reaping fruit
Of loyal homage through the flying years
Of eight long centuries.

O! his fame was writ

In bloody lustre in the scroll of fame,

When in their sports his playmates crowned him king.
But Nature moulded out so vast a brow,

And in such proud ambition curl'd his lip,
That not the rich broad lands of Normandy,
Not the foam-beaten coast of Bretagne, stretched
An empire meet for him and wide enough.
And, therefore, England! did the battle storm
Sweep from the south upon thine angry shores,
And lower o'er Hastings, soon to burst in blood.

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O! for the spell of numbers breathing war
And deeds of hero-daring, and the din
Of death and victory! Then might I sing
With what fierce soul the Norman follow'd on
His chieftain's battle-cry, how nobly stood
And died for England and for England's king,
Full many a daring Saxon, when the sky

Was thick with hail of arrows; then might flash
From all the eager strings a song of might,
Of heroes' deeds and heroes' deaths, and clang
Of armed scale, and clash of swords, and all
The battle thunder out in minstrelsy.

Ah no! not now such strains! They best befit
The voice of triumph, and my song must flow
Softly and sadly; for a mist of tears

Falls on my spirit, like the night of death

Upon the field of Hastings; and my ears

Can hear but Freedom's death shriek, and the wail Of a lone woman-sacred-beautiful,

Mourning above the body of her lord.

Yea, fair-haired king, a glorious death was thine! True Saxon heart-good, kind, and brave, how oft My soul has traced the spirit-teeming Past

To fight with thee that battle o'er again!

How, through the bloody day, thy single arm

Wrought more than mortal deeds, and thy great soul,
Where danger hottest prest was ever there,

One man a host; and oh what grief and love
Flowed from thy dying heart in that red stream,

Which dropt, thy last gift, on thy native soil.

But sleep in peace! for o'er thy sacred head,
The sea, the unbounded sea, hath hymned a song,

6 Harold was buried on the sea shore.

Nobler than Norway's sagas; every wave

And every foam drop sparkling in the sun

Hath dash'd thy sepulchre with Heav'n's own psalm
Of liberty; hath sung of English homes,
And English land untouch'd for long long years

'By foot of foreign foe; and paid to thee
The honour'd tribute of a wide spread rule,
An empire gained by fearless Saxon hearts,
Hearts all untamed but mix'd with Norman fire.

To

Not mine to turn me from so bright a scene

weep the miseries of England's sons, And lift the veil from hidden graves of wrong, And turbulence of wanton cruelty.

Nor mine to tell how Heav'n's dread thunder-bolt

Of retribution fell, and God's own hand

Wrote in the Conqueror's house the burning words
Of death and anger, and a father's sins
Reveng'd in fearful justice on his sons.
For all too mournful sad has been the tale,

And not with woeful cries and shrieks of death,

The Norman sun set in the sea of Time.

But as when evening fades into the night,

Some passing breeze wafts through the fading air,
A noise of shaking groves and rippling streams,
And melodies of summer birds, a song

Of thanks for light, and heat, and bounteous day.
So minstrel voices, and the whispered words,

Of blushing love, and all the joyous noise

Of lightsome dance and tourney, glimmered through
The laughing plains of Normandy, and through
The yellow cornfields of our English land.
And often when the sun flash'd dying beams

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Of rosy light across the golden Seine,
And the soft zephyr danc'd along his wave,
Old men would tell and eager harpers sing
Of bloody battles fought in Palestine,
And wondrous feats of Norman hardihood
And knightly daring for a Saviour's cross.
Then sounded out the immortal memories
Of Godfrey Bouillon, and fiery fame

Of gallant Tancred, and an answering wind
Swelling through all the merry forest land
Of England, echoed back the deathless name
Of Richard Lion-heart.

Thus mingling soft

With the deep song of ages, died away
The shout of warriors, and the roar of fight

That hurtled on the world from Norway's hills.

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