XVII
The last of all the lords that sprang
From Harcourt of the Crown,
He parried with the shield and the silver rang,
But the axe fell heavy on the helm with a clang
And the girths parted and the saddle swang,
And he went down:
He never more sang winter songs
In his high town.
XVIII
In his high town that Faëry is,
And stands on Harcourt bay,
The fisher surging through the night
Takes bearing by that castle height,
And moors him harboured in the bight,
And watches for the day.
But with the broadening of the light,
It vanishes away.
XIX
In his high town that Faëry is,
And stands on Harcourt Lea.
To summon him up his arrier-ban,
His writ beyond the mountains ran;
My father was his serving man,
Although the farm was free.
Before the angry wars began
He was a friend to me.
XX
The night before the boy was born
There came a Priest who said
That he had seen red Aldeborn,
The star of hate in Taurus’ horn,
Which glared above a field of corn,
And covered him with dread.
I wish to God I had not held
The cloth in which he bled.
. . . . . .
XXI
The Horse from Cleres and Valery,
The foot from Yvetot,
And all the men of the Harbour Towns
That live by fall and flow.
And all the men of the Beechen Ford
—Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!—
And all the sails in Michael’s ward,
And all the shields of Caux,
Shall follow you out across the world,
With sword and lance and bow,
To Beachy and to Pevensey Bar,
To Chester through the snow,
With sack and pack and camping tent,
A-grumbling as they go:
My lord is William of Falaise.
Haro!