Where the doomed Saxon, zealous for his race, 205
Deemed he endowed their last proud dwelling-place;
With wealth—and lands—enriched the holy shrine
Where he should sleep—the latest of his line!
Come to that vacant shrine—though—such the doom
Of greatness—here we trace not e’en his tomb! 210
All that this pile so changed can now record,
Is that, bowed down before the Norman’s sword,
Here the pale mother, with vain fondness, gave
Her murder’d Harold that sad boon—a grave!