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HAROLD TIIE SECOND.
“ 'Twas party deceit,
“ Help'd the Normans to beat,
“ Pict, Saxon, or Dane,
“ Had assail'd us in vain, :
“ And the records of fame
Shall add to his name,
T. Dibdir's Songs.
The truth demands, yet we record with pain,
WILLIAM 'ere yet his fortune he essayed,. With Norway's chief, and Harold's brother
But Harold's arm so well that loss redeem'd
The last, last time she beam'd,
But whose the ships afar descried,
Our fears exciting?
'Tis Norman WILLIAM and his band,
For England fighting?
Mark! high exalted o'er the rest,
To blood inviting!
They land! To earth see mail-clad William
falls, His troops the omen not appals ; Turf, and the cotter's thatch, his warriors bring, As seizen of the soil, and hail the invader, King.
What knight, in breast-plate wrought with gold,
Each other chearing?
'Tis Aimar, with good reason vain
No foeman fearing.
And there, a thousand men at arms
Our startled hearing.
The deep drum rolls, and, as the threatning
throng, Beneath their frowning banners move along, The shore resounds with Rollo's martial song.
De Beaumont, Lacy, Pevrel, each an host, (The noblest warriors from the Norman coast) D'Evreux, Fitz-Richard, with that chieftain
famed, CHABLES MARTEL, and (too num'rous to be
named) LONGUEVILLE, DE THOURS, GRANTMESNIL,
and MORTAIGNE, De. EsTAPLES, Warrean, GIFFARD, and a
train, With EUSTACE DE BOULOGNE of men renowned. And, hark again the drum, and hark the trum
pet's sound! Forward they march, and now, from WILLIAM
sent, A Norman herald seeks the royal tent ; There fiercely throws his master's gauntlet down, Who proffers single combat for the crown. HAROLD with stern disdain the pledge denies, And on his people's love, and heav'n's high aid,
Yet why before the arbitrative day,
Expectant of the fight, Did Britons pass the night In song unseemly and carousal gay? While to the sacred pow'r that rules the skies, Unnumber'd Norman prayers and praises rise.
'Tis dawn !—'Tis day! once more the trumpet's
throat Brays bold defiance—who can tell i What numbers in its dreadful note
Have heard their dying knell ?
No thund’ring cannon here the field affrights,
The Norman bowstring's fatal twang
Echoed by groans responsive rang. Not there with simultaneous sound The well-timed musquetry is found;
But on the glitt’ring ranks,
On iron helms the falling iron clanks, And cleaves through shiver'd mail with dreadful
Not there, as late on Maida's plains,