CANTO THIRD.
Waltham Abbey and Forest—Wild Woman of the Woods.
At Waltham Abbey, o'er King Harold's grave
A requiem was chanted; for last night
A passing spirit shook the battlements,
And the pale monk, at midnight, as he watched
The lamp, beheld it tremble; whilst the shrines
Shook, as the deep foundations of the fane
Were moved. Oh! pray for Harold's soul! he cried.
And now, at matin bell, the monks were met,
And slowly pacing round the grave, they sang:
DIRGE.
Peace, oh! peace, be to the shade10
Of him who here in earth is laid:
Saints and spirits of the blessed,
Look upon his bed of rest;
Forgive his sins, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
When, from yonder window's height,
The moonbeams on the floor are bright,
Sounds of viewless harps shall die,
Sounds of heaven's own harmony!20
Forgive his sins, propitious be;21
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
By the spirits of the brave,
Who died the land they loved to save;
By the soldier's faint farewell,
By freedom's blessing, where he fell;
Forgive his sins, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!30
By a nation's mingled moan,
By liberty's expiring groan,
By the saints, to whom 'tis given
To bear that parting groan to heaven;
To his shade propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!
The proud and mighty—
As they sung, the doors
Of the west portal, with a sound that shook40
The vaulted roofs, burst open; and, behold!
An armed Norman knight, the helmet closed
Upon his visage, but of stature tall,
His coal-black armour clanking as he trod,
Advancing up the middle aisle alone,
Approached: he gazed in silence on the grave
Of the last Saxon; there a while he stood,
Then knelt a moment, muttering a brief prayer:
The fathers crossed their breasts—the mass-song ceased;
Heedless of all around, the mailed man50
Rose up, nor speaking, nor inclining, paced51
Back through the sounding aisle, and left the fane.
The monks their interrupted song renewed:
The proud and mighty, when they die,
With the crawling worm shall lie;
But who would not a crown resign,
Harold, for a rest like thine!
Saviour Lord, propitious be;
Dona pacem, Domine,
Dona pacem, Domine!60
"Pacem" (as slow the stoled train retire),
"Pacem," the shrines and fretted roofs returned.
'Twas told, three Norman knights, in armour, spurred
Their foaming steeds to the West Abbey door;
But who it was, that with his visor closed
Passed up the long and echoing fane alone,
And knelt on Harold's gravestone, none could tell.
The stranger knights in silence left the fane,
And soon were lost in the surrounding shades
Of Waltham forest.70
He who foremost rode
Passed his companions, on his fleeter steed,
And, muttering in a dark and dreamy mood,
Spurred on alone, till, looking round, he heard
Only the murmur of the woods above,
Whilst soon all traces of a road were lost
In the inextricable maze. From morn
Till eve, in the wild woods he wandered lost.
Night followed, and the gathering storm was heard
Among the branches. List! there is no sound80
Of horn far off, or tramp of toiling steed,
Or call of some belated forester;
No lonely taper lights the waste; the woods83
Wave high their melancholy boughs, and bend
Beneath the rising tempest. Heard ye not
Low thunder to the north! The solemn roll
Redoubles through the darkening forest deep,
That sounds through all its solitude, and rocks,
As the long peal at distance rolls away.
Hark! the loud thunder crashes overhead;90
And, as the red fire flings a fitful glare,
The branches of old oaks, and mossy trunks,
Distinct and visible shine out; and, lo!
Interminable woods, a moment seen,
Then lost again in deeper, lonelier night.
The torrent rain o'er the vast leafy cope
Comes sounding, and the drops fall heavily
Where the strange knight is sheltered by the trunk
Of a huge oak, whose dripping branches sweep
Far round. Oh! happy, if beneath the flash100
Some castle's bannered battlements were seen,
Where the lone minstrel, as the storm of night
Blew loud without, beside the blazing hearth
Might dry his hoary locks, and strike his harp
(The fire relumined in his aged eyes)
To songs of Charlemagne!
Or, happier yet
If some gray convent's bell remote proclaimed
The hour of midnight service, when the chant
Was up, and the long range of windows shone110
Far off on the lone woods; whilst Charity
Might bless and welcome, in a night like this,
The veriest outcast! Angel of the storm,
Ha! thy red bolt this instant shivering rives
That blasted oak!
The horse starts back, and bounds116
From the knight's grasp. The way is dark and wild;
As dark and wild as if the solitude
Had never heard the sound of human steps.
Pondering he stood, when, by the lightning's glance,120
The knight now marked a small and craggy path
Descending through the woody labyrinth.
He tracked his way slowly from brake to brake,
Till now he gained a deep sequestered glen.
I fear not storms, nor thunders, nor the sword,
The knight exclaimed: that eye alone I fear,
God's stern and steadfast eye upon the heart!
Yet peace is in the grave where Harold sleeps.
Who speaks of Harold? cried a woman's voice,
Heard through the deep night of the woods. He spoke,130
A stern voice answered, he of Harold spoke,
Who feared his sword in the red front of war,
Less than the powers of darkness: and he crossed
His breast, for at that instant rose the thought
Of the weird sisters of the wold, that mock
Night wanderers, and "syllable men's names"
In savage solitude. If now, he cried,
Dark minister, thy spells of wizard power
Have raised the storm and wild winds up, appear!
He scarce had spoken, when, by the red flash140
That glanced along the glen, half visible,
Uprose a tall, majestic female form:
So visible, her eyes' intenser light
Shone wildly through the darkness; and her face,
On which one pale flash more intently shone,
Was like a ghost's by moonlight, as she stood
A moment seen: her lips appeared to move,
Muttering, whilst her long locks of ebon hair
Streamed o'er her forehead, by the bleak winds blown149
Upon her heaving breast.
The knight advanced;
The expiring embers from a cave within,
Now wakened by the night-air, shot a light,
Fitful and trembling, and this human form,
If it were human, at the entrance stood,
As seemed, of a rude cave. You might have thought
She had strange spells, such a mysterious power
Was round her; such terrific solitude,
Such night, as of the kingdom of the grave;
Whilst hurricanes seemed to obey her 'hest.160
And she no less admired, when, front to front,
By the rekindling ember's darted gleam,
A mailed man, of proud illustrious port,
She marked; and thus, but with unfaltering voice,
She spake:
Yes! it was Harold's name I heard!
Whence, and what art thou? I have watched the night,
And listened to the tempest as it howled;
And whilst I listening lay, methought I heard,
Even now, the tramp as of a rushing steed;170
Therefore I rose, and looked into the dark,
And now I hear one speak of Harold: say,
Whence, and what art thou, solitary man?
If lost and weary, enter this poor shed;
If wretched, pray with me; if on dark deeds
Intent, I am a most poor woman, cast
Into the depths of mortal misery!
The desolate have nought to lose:—pass on!
I had not spoken, but for Harold's name,
By thee pronounced: it sounded in my ears180
As of a better world—ah, no! of days
Of happiness in this. Whence, who art thou?
I am a Norman, woman; more to know183
Seek not:—and I have been to Harold's grave,
Remembering that the mightiest are but dust;
And I have prayed the peace of God might rest
Upon his soul.
And, by our blessed Lord,
The deed was holy, that lone woman said;
And may the benediction of all saints,190
Whoe'er thou art, rest on thy head. But say,
What perilous mischance hath hither led
Thy footsteps in an hour and night like this?
Over his grave, of whom we spake, I heard
The mass-song sung. I knelt upon that grave,
And prayed for my own sins, I left the fane,
And heard the chanted rite at distance die.
Returning through these forest shades, with thoughts
Not of this world, I pressed my panting steed,
The foremost of the Norman knights, and passed200
The track, that, leading to the forest-ford,
Winds through the opening thickets; on a height
I stood and listened, but no voice replied:
The storm descended; at the lightning's flash
My good steed burst the reins, and frantic fled.
I was alone: the small and craggy path
Led to this solitary glen; and here,
As dark and troubled thoughts arose, I mused
Upon the dead man's sleep; for God, I thought,
This night spoke in the rocking of the winds!210
There is a Judge in heaven, the woman said,
Who seeth all things; and there is a voice,
Inaudible 'midst the tumultuous world,
That speaks of fear or comfort to the heart
When all is still! But shroud thee in this cave
Till morning: such a sojourn may not please
A courtly knight, like echoing halls of joy.217
I have but some wild roots, a bed of fern,
And no companion save this bloodhound here,
Who, at my beck, would tear thee to the earth;
Yet enter—fear not! And that poor abode
The proud knight entered, with rain-drenched plume.
Yet here I dwell in peace, the woman said,
Remote from towns, nor start at the dire sound
Of that accursed curfew! Soldier-knight,
Thou art a Norman! Had the invader spurned
All charities in thy own native land,
Yes, thou wouldst know what injured Britons feel!
Nay, Englishwoman, thou dost wrong our king,
The knight replied: conspiracy and fraud230
Hourly surrounding him, at last compelled
Stern rigour to awake. What! shall the bird
Of thunder slumber on the citadel,
And blench his eye of fire, when, looking down,
He sees, in ceaseless enmity combined,
Those who would pluck his feathers from his breast,
And cast them to the winds! Woman, on thee,
Haply, the tempest of the times has beat
Too roughly; but thy griefs he can requite.
The indignant woman answered, He requite!240
Can he bring back the dead? Can he restore
Joy to the broken-hearted? He requite!
Can he pour plenty on the vales his frown
Has blasted, bid sweet evening hear again
The village pipe, and the fair flowers revive
His bloody footstep crushed? For poverty,
I reck it not: what is to me the night,
Spent cheerless, and in gloom and solitude?
I fix my eye upon that crucifix,
I mourn for those that are not—for my brave,250
My buried countrymen! Of this no more!251
Thou art a foe; but a brave soldier-knight
Would scorn to wrong a woman; and if death
Could arm my hand this moment, thou wert safe
In a poor cottage as in royal halls.
Here rest a while till morning dawns—the way
No mortal could retrace:—'twill not be long,
And I can cheat the time with some old strain;
For, Norman though thou art, thy soul has felt
Even as a man, when sacred sympathy260
This morning led thee to King Harold's grave.
The woman sat beside the hearth, and stirred
The embers, or with fern or brushwood raised
A fitful flame, but cautious, lest its light
Some roving forester might mark. At times,
The small and trembling blaze shone on her face,
Still beautiful, and showed the dark eye's fire
Beneath her long black locks. When she stood up,
A dignity, though in the garb of want,
Seemed round her, chiefly when the brushwood-blaze270
Glanced through the gloom, and touched the dusky mail
Of the strange knight; then with sad smile she sung:
Oh! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green—
Oh! then 'tis sweet,
In some remote retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,280
With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together.
But when 'tis winter weather,283
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,—
Oh! then 'tis sweet
To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring,290
We roamed through the greenwood together.
The bloodhound slept upon the hearth; he raised
His head, and, through the dusk, his eyes were seen,
Fiery, a moment; but again he slept,
When she her song renewed.
Though thy words might well deceive me—
That is past—subdued I bend;
Yet, for mercy, do not leave me
To the world without a friend!
Oh! thou art gone! and would, with thee,300
Remembrance too had fled!
She lives to bid me weep, and see
The wreath I cherished dead.
The knight, through the dim lattice, watched the clouds
Of morn, now slowly struggling in the east,
When, with a voice more thrilling, and an air
Wilder, again a sad song she intoned:
Upon the field of blood,
Amidst the bleeding brave,
O'er his pale corse I stood—310
But he is in his grave!
I wiped his gory brow,312
I smoothed his clotted hair—
But he is at peace, in the cold ground now;
Oh! when shall we meet there?
At once, horns, trumpets, and the shouts of men,
Were heard above the valley. At the sound,
The knight, upstarting from his dreamy trance,
High raised his vizor, and his bugle rang,
Answering. By God in heaven, thou art the king!320
The woman said. Again the clarions rung:
Like lightning, Alain and Montgomerie
Spurred through the wood, and led a harnessed steed
To the lone cabin's entrance, whilst the train
Sent up a deafening shout, Long live the king!
He, ere he vaulted to the saddle-bow,
Turned with a look benevolent, and cried,
Barons and lords, to this poor woman here
Haply I owe my life! Let her not need!
Away! she cried, king of these realms, away!330
I ask not wealth nor pity—least from thee,
Of all men. As the day began to dawn,
More fixed and dreadful seemed her steadfast look;
The long black hair upon her labouring breast
Streamed, whilst her neck, as in disdain, she raised,
Swelling, her eyes a wild terrific light
Shot, and her voice, with intonation deep,
Uttered a curse, that even the bloodhound crouched
Beneath her feet, whilst with stern look she spoke:
Yes! I am Editha! she whom he loved—340
She whom thy sword has left in solitude,
How desolate! Yes, I am Editha!
And thou hast been to Harold's grave—oh! think,
King, where thy own will be! He rests in peace;
But even a spot is to thy bones denied;345
I see thy carcase trodden under foot;
Thy children—his, with filial reverence,
Still think upon the spot where he is laid,
Though distant and far severed—but thy son,[101]
Thy eldest born, ah! see, he lifts the sword350
Against his father's breast! Hark, hark! the chase
Is up! in that wild forest thou hast made!
The deer is flying—the loud horn resounds—
Hurrah! the arrow that laid Harold low,
It flies, it trembles in the Red King's heart![102]
Norman, Heaven's hand is on thee, and the curse
Of this devoted land! Hence, to thy throne!
The king a moment with compassion gazed,
And now the clarions, and the horns, and trumps
Rang louder; the bright banners in the winds360
Waved beautiful; the neighing steeds aloft
Mantled their manes, and up the valley flew,
And soon have left behind the glen, the cave
Of solitary Editha, and sounds
Of her last agony!
Montgomerie,
King William, turning, cried, when this whole land
Is portioned (for till then we may not hope
For lasting peace) forget not Editha.[103]
In the gray beam the spires of London shone,370
And the proud banner on the bastion
Of William's tower was seen above the Thames,
As the gay train, slow winding through the woods,
Approached; when, lo! with spurs of blood, and voice
Faltering, upon a steed, whose labouring chest
Heaved, and whose bit was wet with blood and froth,376
A courier met them.
York, O king! he cried,
York is in ashes!—all thy Normans slain!
Now, by the splendour of the throne of God,380
King William cried, nor woman, man, nor child,
Shall live! Terrific flashed his eye of fire,
And darker grew his frown; then, looking up,
He drew his sword, and with a vow to Heaven,
Amid his barons, to the trumpet's clang
Rode onward (breathing vengeance) to the Tower.