To-morrow comes—that joy is gone—
There lies the human clay,
The spirit to its rest has gone
Where brighter shines the day.
We know not when that bidding comes,
That bears us from the earth;
How few the years that stand between
Our death-call and our birth.
Thus was’t with Harold—in the night,
Carousing in the tent,
His joy was great, but ’morrows light,
His knee in suppliance bent.
The cup went round,—and small thought they
Upon the next day’s fight,
That Harold soon in death should lie
Within the waning light.
In William’s camp no cup went round,
But heads were bent in prayer,
And plans were laid; then silence kept
Its peaceful reigning there.
Oh! solemn was the prayer they said—
And solemn was the scene;
The archers with their bows stood by
With grave and silent mien.
The morning came,—the proud array
Stood silent as the dead;
The battle-axes in their hands
Did rise far overhead.
And in the midst, his armor bright,
Stood Harold with his sword,
And far and near around stood those
Who waited at his word.
The banner rose above them all—
Its warrior stood on high,
And precious stones did mark him there
That scarcely wealth could buy.
Duke William led his heroes forth
And gave them to the fray,
Ah, many of those heroes there
Ne’er saw another day.