Now, adieu; I must be speeding
Where the wild wings swiftly fly,
And the clouds go by me floating,
So I bid you all “good-bye.”
HASTINGS.
Oh, bright the day when England’s crown
Came forth to crown the king;
And in the minds of those around
It seemed no trifling thing.
“Give back the crown!” was William’s word,
“Or my good sword shall pay,
With heavy thrust and bleeding cut,
For this you’ve done to-day.”
For Edward’s will that crown had sent
To grace stern William’s head,
But Harold too had claimed the right,
And for that right he bled.
Aye! bled, and died, and lost the crown
He’d struggled so to save,
And ah! that struggle led him to
His solitary grave.
Yes! Godwin’s son was born to fight—
To chase and not to fly,
And he was born for Hasting’s fate,
And that fate was to die.
Ah! weep ye noble Saxon men—
The last king of your line
Shall sleep the cold, still sleep of death,
That solemn sleep divine.
To-day we merry are and joy
Doth reign supreme around,
And music seems in every noise
And ev’ry passing sound.