“No proud helmet gives protection,
“Death brings all things in subjection;
“And the hero’s blood is shed,
“And the wicked win instead.
“Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches!
On the morrow in he marches,
“Who the better one o’erthrew,
“Winning land and people too.
“Senator and burgomaster
“Go to meet the victor faster
“With the keys that ope the gate,
“And the train then enters straight.
“Cannon from the walls are crashing,
“Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing,
“Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky,
“And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry.
“On the balconies are standing
“Smiling beauteous women, handing
“To the victor flow’ry wreaths;
“He with haughty calmness breathes.”
HASTINGS BATTLE-FIELD.
The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’d
When he heard the tragical story
That Harold the king had lost his life
On Hastings battle-field gory.
Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, he
As messengers then selected,
To seek at Hastings amongst the dead
For Harold’s body neglected.
The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts,
And return’d with faces averted:
“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,
“We seem by Fortune deserted.
“The better man has fallen in fight,
“O’ercome by that bastard demon;
“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,
“And make a slave of the freeman.